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A short time ago I
found myself sitting at my computer station with a friend showing him my
"latest greatest tech gadget" when he noticed a box of old slides my
father had given me to scan to disk for him.
He asked me about the celluloid relics and after a brief explanation I
made a passing joke.
"I remember slide show night" I said, "and how much my brother and I
dreaded having to watch the boring slides and listen to stories about
stuff we already did."
We both laughed for a moment and moved on to something else.
Later after my friend had left I sat at my computer trying to play a
game or work on some project but found my eyes drawn down to that dusty
box of slides.
And a question kept coming up into my head each time I looked at it.
"Where was that memory of dread coming from?"
Eventually the project or game or whatever I thought I needed to do at
that moment drifted away as I began a journey back into my childhood to
"slide show night."
Sunday morning and my dad would be sitting at his big old desk.
Several gray steel boxes full of slides stacked around and three or four
slide carousels laid out in front of him.
Each time my brother and I would pass by throughout the day he would be
there holding a slide in each hand up to the light.
Carefully determining which one was just right to go into the next slot
on the carousel.
We would occasionally come up and peer through the cardboard frame
surrounding the colorful cell and try to make out what it was we were
looking at.
Laughing, we never could sort out the tiny images and the cryptic notes
that were written around each one gave no more of a clue.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
The day would drift by and soon the sound of dad pulling the old steel
screen out of the closet could be heard.
Yanking it free from the pile of magazines and past the ancient winter
jackets that no one would ever wear again but no one would throw away.
My brother and I would race to be the one to help set up the strange
contraption. Legs unfold in each direction.
The big steel tube rotating out to parallel the floor .
The long extender arm sliding up with a metal on metal screech.
Then the moment we were really there for, as my dad would pull out the
white sparkly screen that was rolled up in the tube so neatly and hooked
it to the top of the extended arm.
My brother and I would try to help grabbing at each side but neither of
us was tall enough yet to reach the heights that the big white screen
would go.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
Then the sound of popcorn kernels hitting the old cast iron pot would be
heard from the kitchen.
Off we would run, into the kitchen, to watch and wait for the first bang
from inside the big black pot.
Mom would go about cleaning up from dinner.
Dad would continue with the more mundane aspects of setting up the slide
projector.
And we would wait watching and listening for that first pop.
Eventually the pop would come.
My brother and I would jump from our concentration.
Soon the pops would sound out like a fifty gun salute.
We sat and waited.
Waiting for that moment when the pot rang out like a full blown machine
gun.
Then we would strike.
Pulling the lid from the pot and watching the big white popcorn fly out
across the stove.
Laughing, mom would swoop in to replace the lid, but never, it seemed,
before a good handful had escaped from the old iron pot.
All of us would grab up a few super hot popcorn puffs and stuff them
into our mouths before they lost their sting.
Then we would march back into the living room to check on the status of
dad and his projector.
Laughing and trying to cool the popcorn in our mouths.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
Finely it was announced.
"Slide show time."
Dressed in our PJs, happy, if for no other reason than it was already
past our bedtimes and we had only just begun.
We would curl up on the couch and wrap ourselves in warm blankets.
Surrounded by the smell of fresh popped popcorn and that peaceful aroma
that only your house has.
And so with a handful of popcorn and a warm blanket, bed time well past
due, the projector was turned on.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
The bright light would hit the big white screen and immediately shadow
bunnies being chased by finger formed dogs would spring to life.
Barking and hopping around the screen dad would patiently wait.
When the laughter stopped and the bunny found his hole the first slide
would finely be set to light.
Again more laughter and all of us, in unison, craning our necks to view
the inevitably upside down first slide.
Dad would back up the carousel and the bunny would come out of his hole
for a brief moment only to be chased back down again this time by the
same slide right side up.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
There it was the first picture of the night.
A picture of the beginning of some adventure we had all taken some time
ago.
A trip up into the mountains or down a river in some endless woods.
We would all gaze and begin to remember.
Then from out of the darkness behind us my dads voice would drift.
Warmer than the blankets we snuggled up in.
Softer than the pillows we sat buried in.
His story began.
A story we all had experienced together.
But this time we would see it all as he had seen it.
As he remembered it.
One by one the pictures would click there way through the story.
Each passing moment we grew more and more still.
Enthralled by the story-memory.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
When the next upside down slide came through no bunnies came out of
their holes we all just turned our heads and went on with the show.
The pictures were no longer the focus.
The story-memory that was unfolding before us was what we were there
for.
An adventure that we all lived together but never saw this way, was
played out in glowing pictures and my dad's soothing voice.
And again I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
Eventually the story-memory would succumb to story-dream as bedtime
caught up with our young bodies.
Soon we would be carried or led up to our bedroom.
Tucked in snug.
The story-memory-dream drifting and changing in our heads.
And slide show night would come to a sleepy end.
So I asked myself where that memory of dread came from?
Sitting at my computer twenty plus years from slide show night I can't
seem to find any dread in my memories.
The very serious question is banging through my mind.
Why then, did I tell my friend that I dreaded slide show night?
The answer comes to me as I refocus on the glowing screen in front of
me.
As the years passed and the slides began to stay in the gray steel
boxes, I found the TV in place of the big white screen.
Here the vivid pictures of places I had been and adventures I had lived,
were replaced by fast moving shows with people I did not know and places
I had never seen.
Places that probably never even existed outside of a movie lot.
The soothing sound of my dad's voice was given over to practiced lines
from "Mr. Unseen TV Announcer."
It was here that I was taught that slide show night was "boring."
It was here that the memory was planted by sitcom children moaning and
groaning in anticipation of the dreaded event.
Their scripted dread was made my own.
This was the realization I came to sitting in front of my computer.
I looked down at the dusty box of slides and the slick shinny CD-ROM
that half of them had already been scanned to and a moment of sadness
came over me.
In this day of digital real time video editing.
With the easy addition of music soundtracks and pixel by pixel touchups.
With home videos shot up instantly on the 45 inch wall mounted plasma
screen.
Would the shadow bunny ever come out of his hole again?
No, he's gone forever.
Would the wonder of the big white screen and slide show night be gone
forever?
Probably.
Would dad's story-memory ever be told again?
Probably not.
But at least now I know where the memory of dread really came from.
Hey dad, how about we free that big white screen from the closet one
last time?
I'm thinking it's about time for slide show night.
From your son,
~Kid Kaos
Note: After writing this my wife and I went over to my Dad's house for
one last "Slide show night".
No, it was not the same as when I was little. So many of the things that
made it what it was are now long gone. Not the least of which is my own
youth.
None the less, we had a wonderful time and may even try again.
Who knows maybe "Slide Show Night" will make one last little come back
before the big white screen fades forever.
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