Skip to main content

Homesick

In this episode, Homesick . . .

"You can never go home again." –Thomas Wolfe.

We've been watching a documentary about the 1970s – 1971, to be exact, on Apple TV+. The Year That Music Changed Everything, how music influenced culture. The Beatles were breaking up, John Lennon recorded the classic Imagineand many Pop bands emerged to protest the Vietnam War. Marvin Gaye's iconic album What's Going On was released in 1971, addressing social issues like poverty, war, and racial injustice. The music from the documentary reminded me of who I was in the 1970s, a time of social and political upheaval. Hippies, with their long hair and anti-war protests, challenged traditional values. Their emphasis on peace and self-expression resonated with many young people, including myself (See Captain Fantastic).

In short, there was political and social unrest throughout the world. It was my sophomore year in high school, and in my world, life was about exploring science, math, space travel, and science fiction. What brought all this to mind?

A few weeks ago, for my birthday, Lori and I traveled to Los Angeles. As you may remember (Griffith’s Glory), we visited Griffith Park. However, since we overnighted in Glendale, CA, we also went to the Glendale Galleria, where I had one of my first jobs after graduating from GIA in 1985 and where Lori and I met.

The Galleria had been remodeled–expanded–featuring an "outdoor" open-air section. While walking through this area, we decided to visit the Barnes & Noble store. It had the feel of the old Barnes and Noble store in Manhattan, with its three floors. Plus, the addition of CDs, LP records, children's toys, and a section dedicated to science fiction. It's been years since I've read classic works by Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Michael Crichton, or Robert Heinlein.

Scanning the titles in front of the rows of bookshelves, I tried to remember my favorite books from that era. However, as the saying goes, "You can never go home again." Although that may be true, books allow us to revisit 
timeless emotions that seem to be buried deep in our subconscious.

Out of sheer curiosity, I selected a copy of Nightfall and Other Stories by Isaac Asimov.

Over the recent Labor Day weekend, I was immersed in stories that had ignited my passion for science, mathematics, physics, and astronomy since childhood. Asimov's suspenseful narratives continue to captivate and challenge the bounds of imagination long before scientific advancements have mirrored those depicted in fiction.

For example, the story "Nobody Here But—" was written in 1953 and first published in Star Science Fiction Stories. It’s about two scientists, Cliff and Bill, who have created a small but powerful computer. Bill, who is shy and hesitant, struggles to propose to his girlfriend, Mary Ann. Sensing Bill's emotional state, the computer offers advice and suggests specific lines for the proposal. As Bill follows the computer's guidance, he becomes increasingly reliant on it, believing that the machine's suggestions are infallible. When Mary Ann finally agrees to marry him, Bill is unsure whether the proposal is his or the computer's idea.

This story explores themes of artificial intelligence (AI), human relationships, and the potential for technology to influence our decisions and behaviors.

Is this beginning to sound all too familiar? So, why reminisce about the 1970s?

Quietly, while selecting this book from the racks, I heard–in my mind–“Mr. Ball, haven’t you ever been homesick?”

Or–maybejust maybeSiri connected to my neural network

I'm Patrick Ball; thanks for listening. See you in the next episode.

Comments

Don Hanley said…
Thanks PATRICK for reminding me to feel free to go back and appreciate my journey up until forever.

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...