Real ultimate power

January 7, 2010

Your life depends on technology. Not just machines but digital technology. Things that are not mechanical; things that have no moving parts but are essential to your living. These things just work, lubricating your life in ways you could not have imagined just months ago, until suddenly they stop working, and then you are left frustrated and miserable. Nerds are the high priests of the magnificent magic of it all, hoarding knowledge and smiling down their beneficence upon you when it suits them; alternately they may treat you with scorn and annoyance, a sense that you are too stupid to deserve their attention, which is in such high demand.

I am here to tell you that it is not magic. You do not require a ponytail and a long experience of video games to master and resolve the technological complications that confront you; you can control and manage the digital things that seem to control and manage (and occasionally mock) you.

Remember this: it’s just electricity. Everything in the digital world gets converted down to zeros and ones, to binary, to electricity or no electricity. The only thing your mouse really understands, the only thing your phone really understands, and (increasingly) the only thing your car really understands is electricity or no electricity — and so ultimately you can decide to plug it in or unplug it, and the power (literally) resides in your hands.

I have a long love affair with electricity. It probably started when I was five years old and living in Surabaya, Indonesia (the largest city you’ve never heard of) while my father was a part of the US consulate there. Indonesia’s electric grid in the early 80s was unreliable to say the least; the construction and wiring of its buildings even more suspect. I was an enterprising and curious five year old with a fascination with all things mechanical and electrical. My father had a reel-to-reel musical device — it feels painful to call it a stereo, and ludicrously ancient to call it a hi-fi — and I loved listening to music on this reel-to-reel machine, in part because of my father’s eclectic taste in music. But occasionally the reel-to-reel simply wouldn’t work, and I discovered after much observation that this was related to electricity, and helped to explain the gigantic and alluring diesel generator that sat in its own building in our back yard.

One afternoon my parents were absent and I was under the caring but not particularly careful care of our nightwatchman-cum-gardner, Ishmael. Sometime after lunch, while Ishmael was taking his siesta from the scorching afternoon heat, I decided to attempt operation of the reel-to-reel, that oh-so-alluring machine, without the consent or presence of my parents. This seemed like a brilliant idea and one that did not need any further debate or review.

After a fair bit of experimentation and consternation, I managed to get the reel-to-reel operational — only to have it suddenly screech to halt as one of Surabaya’s rolling brownouts hit our house. Occasionally these brownouts would only affect certain phases of the house for inexplicable reasons relating to its original construction; consequently I procured a flathead metal screwdriver and proceeded to try to identify a live outlet in our house that would lead to the resumption of the reel-to-reel’s operation.

This was a very bad idea.

I did find a live outlet, and managed to shock my hand so badly that my entire arm shook violent and went floppy for several hours. My left hand shook uncontrollably for hours. Motor control gradually returned to me but even when my parents arrived back late in the evening, six or seven or even eight hours later, my hand was somewhat calmed but still moving occasionally of its own volition.

Rather than terrify me, this was exciting. I had discovered true, ultimate power: the power of electricity. The possibilities seemed endless. The story of Frankenstein seemed so promising and so shallow, only scratching the surface of what was possible. Years later on an ill-advised collegiate summer visit to the Jersey Shore I discovered in a badly decaying boardwalk arcade a machine called the Adams Family Shocker. The machine consisted of a giant plastic head of Uncle Fester accompanied by two large metal poles. The idea was that you grasped one pole in each hand, and the Giant Head of Fester sent something — not quite electricity but referencing electricity with its intensity of vibration — through the poles. Over approximately five minutes, Uncle Fester increased the intensity of the “shock” in an effort to establish how long you might endure (a metaphor for something else perhaps?). Could you hold on as the dial moved up into the maximum shock zone?

This was sweeter than any candy to me. I played it multiple times, absolutely giddy as I reached the maximum “shock” each time. When you started to notice steam coming out of the ears of the Giant Head of Uncle Fester, then you knew you were in the end stage, and if you could just hold on a while longer, just tolerate the shock for a few more seconds, the lightbulb in Uncle Fester’s mouth would light up, and you would triumph.

This machine, the Adams Family Shocker, was the Single Greatest Machine I had ever encountered. The memory of it stayed with me for weeks until I finally decided I must own one myself. Imagine if instead of consuming half a pot of coffee each morning, I simply shocked myself awake? This was brilliant. Think of the money I’d save on coffee alone!

After some searching aided by the early days of Google, I discovered that the Adams Family Shocker was somewhat difficult to come across, quite expensive, and had astronomical shipping fees associated with it. I still aspire to own one — the dream shall never die.

Year-end reads

December 29, 2009

For a variety of reasons (mostly my obsession with technology and my incessant hand-cramps that makes turning pages troublesome) I’ve only read books on my Kindle this year. I’m sure there are those who will disparage me for that, but to quote Davy Crockett, you may all go to hell and I will go to my Kindle.

One of the consequences of only reading things on my Kindle is that it’s easy to review everything I read this year with a single glance. Turns out I read just over 100 books, on top of my periodical periodical reading (which these days is limited mostly to poetry journals, Wired, my beloved New York Review of Books, and (despite my father-in-law’s disdain) the New Yorker). In 2009, I set out to overcome a long-running animosity towards novels and decided to force myself to read more fiction (instead of poetry and history). Although this mission was accomplished, quality control might have been lacking, and unsatisfying variants of zombie science fiction prevailed. (I bet you didn’t even know one could read more than 3 zombie science fiction novels). In my defense, I did read almost the entire Philip K. Dick oeuvre, giving me some serious nerd street cred. Philip K. Dick is dead. Long Live Philip K. Dick.

My goal for this next year is to go back and read a variety of classic 20th century fiction, with Evelyn Waugh at the top of my list, in part since I love Graham Greene so much. I managed to avoid reading Updike’s fiction and I was never fond of his poetry, but all the eulogizing of Updike as a great writer has piqued my interest, although I haven’t started yet. The list of Important Novels I haven’t read is quite long; in 2010, I’m aspiring to be as well-read as my wife (a formidable task I assure you and surely not to be accomplished in a mere 12 months).

In any case, here are my favorite reads this year:

  • I was quite fond his earlier dancer, but this time Colum McCann has written a truly beautiful novel with Let the Great World Spin. It has inspired me to read more of his work — and it also led me to watch the documentary Man On Wire.
  • For some humor, I enjoyed This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper, although there are those (mostly women it seems) who disagree with me.
  • David Foster Wallace’s unfortunate suicide late last year led me to return to his writing, which I had last enjoyed ten years ago. I was afraid it would not age well; in fact I found Consider the Lobster and Other Essays to be even better.
  • On the non-fiction front, Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original by Robin Kelley was so fantastic and provided so much food for thought that I am certain I will be writing about it again on this blog.
  • I hesitate to describe Liberation: Being the Adventures of the Slick Six After the Collapse of the United States of America by Brian Francis Slattery as science fiction; it’s more a portrait of the United States just a few years out. Incredibly, Slattery is an economist who wrote this fantastic and odd novel about the collapse of the US economy just a few months before our own economy hit the skids, making it seem all to close to reality.
  • The two science fiction novels I enjoyed the most this year were Halting State by Charles Stross (with its visions of MMORPGs destroying the geopolitical balance of power) and Altered Carbon by Richard Morgan, which was just bad-ass.
  • On the poetry front, I have read and re-read Saving Daylight by Jim Harrison and found it to be excellent. Of course, my taste runs to Jim Harrison anyway and there are those who don’t care for him. Other than that I have found the year to be a bit of a disappointment for me on the poetry front; I keep up with Poetry Magazine and a random assortment of other journals, but it just hasn’t been a year where anything has appealed to me. I have returned after a long hiatus to the Paris Review, and that has been a mighty feast which has slaked my thirst for whatever is that brings me to poetry.

So there you have it: my year in reading.

Nicco and Joshua’s First Podcast

December 22, 2009

A new show, an experiment, seeking a voice, in this episode covering Cake the Greatest Band of All Time, Wookies, Camera Questions, and whether or not to give your kids email addresses.

MP3 File


December 14, 2009

I finally got fed up with keeping my hosted wordpress installation up-to-date, security patched and spam-free. Trouble with Google and Malware only intensified my frustration. So I’ve decided to move everything over to a setup. Got a few hiccups, but we’re working through them. You might find this post from a 404 error (file not found) looking for my old blog. Thanks for your patience. (Any suggestions on how to improve the Kubrick header image which is kind of blocky and not altogether graceful are much appreciated.)


April 23, 2009

I was named after my father’s father, my paternal grandfather, Nicholas Angelo Mele. He died when I was 5. I have a few hazy memories of him – but mostly I have the stories that everyone in the family told (and still tell!) about him. I love him intensely – most from these stories – and he is a powerful figure for me. I share his name, I carry on his legacy, and I feel a deep intimate connection with him, even though I hardly knew him. I am proud to be named after him.

Morra and I decided to give Asa the middle name “Archibald” in a large part because of the stories I remember my grandmother telling me about her grandfather, Archibald Joseph McPhee. He was my maternal grandmother’s grandfather. I think that makes him my great-great-grandfather and Asa’s great-great-great-grandfather. I wanted to collect some family stories about Archibald before they faded off into distant memory. My mother helped me – putting down the stories she remembers, and getting stories directly from my great-aunt Gina and my great-uncle John.

The full stories are below, but he sounds like a warm, generous wonderful man who was truly loved. I remember the way my grandmother told stories about him, I could tell she loved him. He had a handlebar mustache and was quite “dapper” even in his old age. He loved corned beef hash, dried codfish, and snuff. He was from Bear River, Prince Edward Island, and seems to have missed it after he moved to California. He clearly loved teaching – a passion that has persisted in our family through the generations. The stories recorded here conjure up a lost era – it makes me wonder what Asa will remember about his grandparents when he is in his 80s.

From my great-aunt Gina, February, 2009

I know that Archie and Grandma were married on Prince Edward Island. About 15 years ago Aunt Anne, Glenn Anne and I think Maureen went back there. The little church they were married in had burned, but they found the book of wedding records. When they [Archie and Annie McPhee] moved to NY I am not sure, but they were living in Brooklyn at the time their three young little boys died within about a week of each other. Dad [Wallace McPhee] was the youngest and they had shipped him out of the city to relatives in upper state NY. Can you imagine how Grandpa and Grandma must have suffered? Archie worked for Metropolitan Life Insurance…not sure what he did. After Dad and Mom [Wallace and Anna] got married they all lived together in an apartment over Dad\’s shoe store in Brooklyn. Dad was afraid of germs and always washing his hands with that awful smelling red soap and I think that must have come from Archie. I remember him as saying; did you wash your hands? I don’t know when Dad moved Archie and Grandma to California, but they were here quite a while before Mom died in 1939, they lived in an upstairs apartment near town. I would go over there quite often with Mom for tea. Tea was very important. Archie boiled the water, but not to a full boil and poured it in a warm tea pot. Real tea leaves not a tea bag…ever. Then milk and sugar in the tea in a pretty cup, I loved it. After Mom died Dad moved them to our house on Denton Way. Mary and Joey took care of them. Archie had a handlebar mustache, but was clean shaven. During the summer of, I think, 1940 Wally and John and a carpenter friend built a little four room house in our backyard. Grandma died before the house was completed, but Grandpa [Archie] moved into one room. They built a porch and a door outside his bedroom and a ramp that he could get a little exercise. Dad got a young fireman and his wife to move into the other bedroom. I think they kinda looked out for him. He was independent and really didn’t need much help. He loved to listen to the radio. By this time he was completely blind, and the radio was his lifeline. His favorite program was a daytime serial Stella Dallas. He also told me that he had a date with Mae West. I hadn’t a clue who Mae West was, but I thought it must be something wonderful, because Archie would sure laugh about it. Now the curious thing is I don’t remember him every coming into the house for dinner or meals. Joey or Mary would take a tray out to him. Lunch he loved canned corned beef hash. I remember it, because I thought it was so evil looking. He also loved dried codfish. I remember my mother getting it in a long tan wooden box. She would soak it in cold water then mix it with mashed potatoes, egg and fry it. He loved it. Joey and Mary continued to fix it for him, and I thought it was pretty good too. Every Sunday Dad would clean his room, help him shower, and probably change his sheets. I don\’t know who did the laundry, but we had a cleaning lady, and she probably did his laundry too. He loved to dance, and even in his 90s he was pretty darn agile. He could tap. He was so cheerful. I loved to sit on his lap and read to him. I couldn’t read until I was in 2nd grade, but I memorized the picture books and would read to him. Every month he got a check for $50. That was quite a sum. He gave me fifty cents…movies were a dime and all the candy you could rot you teeth was a nickel so that fifty cents was quite a fortune. Now this is strange…I never remember him going to church. Dad never took him. And I don’t remember any priests coming to visit him. Our house was loaded with priests visiting all the time…Mary making vegetable soup for Fr. Tappe, but not a priest around Archie. I don’t remember any statues in his room, but our house looked like the inside of a church. Dad had friends who had a chicken farm in Cotati. They were originally from PEI..they would visit with Archie and he loved it. He loved to snuff tobacco. I think he probably gave Dad his $50 for his care. Don’t really know. He was immaculate…never old man spots on his clothes, and his room was clean. At his funeral his friends from PEI said he would love to have gotten up and had a toast and a good shot of bourbon. It is funny the little things i remember. I think he must have loved to read before he lost his sight, because he sure wanted me to learn to read. That is about all I remember, but if I think of anything else I’ll write to you.

From my mother, Mary Helene, February, 2009

This is what I remember from my mother about AJ (Archibald Joseph. My own theory was that was why my mother was named Josephine, to make up for not naming John Archibald. She said that wasn’t the case; she was named after Sister Illuminata, whose baptismal name was Josephine.) Anyway, I remember Mom telling me how he lived with his wife and “Aunt Annie” who was a maiden aunt from her mother’s side of the family (her mother, Anna Holmes, had no relatives on the Holmes side and her mother had been raised by Aunt Annie and a bachelor uncle and not by her mother, who seems to have been a bit …wayward, shall we say.) Anyway, Aunt Annie lived with them and they got along well, although Archie’s wife had dementia early. Aunt Annie and AJ would walk to church together every morning. I distinctly remember my mother saying this, but then it would have been before Gina was old enough to know. I remember that AJ was a school teacher and we have his teacher’s credential. He might have worked from Met Life as well, but he loved to teach and he taught my mother to read before she went to school, and to play Pinochle. He’d have play school for John and Josie and when he got tired he’d have them spell some impossible word which I forget…and which I regret forgetting. My mother said she was shocked in later years to discover it really was a word. They never could, and so then they had to go home.

She did say he was dapper. Jo would take him on walks around the neighborhood when he was blind (but Aunt Annie walked him to church.) While they were walking, and passed someone on the street or on their porch, Archie would ask “How do they look?” and she would describe them in detail for him.

He used to live in Bear River, Prince Edward Island, and for many years folks wrote him, but as his friends died off, my mother would pretend there was a letter and she’d read him the news from Prince Edward Island, making it up.

It’s funny how the memory of someone is so colored by who we are and at what point in our lives we experience someone and how selective our memories are. I have vivid memories of stories of AJ (and how my mother loved her grandfather) and her own father.

Dictation to Mary Helene from my great-uncle John, February 2009

Archibald Joseph was his name, known as AJ. Medium height and stayed the same weight until he died. Walking every day, he was blind the last 10 years of his life from cataracts.

AJ was a schoolteacher; taught at Bear River on Prince Edward Island, where he was born. St. Catherine’s of Scotland was the church. Graveyard has mostly McPhees there.

AJ taught Joey and John to read. He was very patient and a great man. Uncle Wally was another good teacher. AJ was just…couldn’t resist himself. He’d take a deck of cards and have us pick out all the 10s, things like that. As he got older and blind, I was so fond of him that I used to go 3 or 4 times a week on Washington St. In Santa Rosa and we’d go to certain bakery and he’d reach in his pocket and bring out a little purse to pay for the bread.

Annie McGowan and Annie McCoughlin and AJ — they all 3 lived together and made rugs out of old material which people saved for them. They’d have wooden stretchers to stretch them out to the right size. They all had their own bedroom. My mother was the #1 caretaker during her life; my dad or Mary later.

When he first arrived in California by train when I was 6 or 7…I went to Sacramento to meet AJ and Nana. I remember being on the platform as they pulled in. They lived next door in a rented house until they got the apartment on Washington St.

He had a little moustache that he was very proud of. He did snuff. That didn’t seem to bother anyone. My grandmother used a little bit of it herself. They didn’t smoke. We built that little house behind Denton Way. Rosemary lived back there with her girlfriend when I was overseas. Wally and I built that house. We did a pretty good job of it. I don’t think my grandmother lived there very long, but AJ lived there quite awhile. I’d take him out an ounce in a snifter. He’d drink it all at once. He’d grab his moustache and say, “OH! That’s good for a man.”

He and I’d be the first ones down at the shoe store. We’d start a fire in the little Franklin stove in that store on 4th str. By the time the customers came it was warm. Old shoe boxes we used to start it. I don’t know how we survived the depression. I was thinking about my dad the other day. We didn’t know there was a depression.

AJ would help anybody. Wally, Anne…he really wanted to be a teacher. A delightful part of our family. Almost every Sunday we went for a ride, with the jump seats, over to the ocean or to Sebastopol for ice-cream. We included Nana and AJ in everything.

Poetry Month — Poetry Festival

April 7, 2009

“April is the cruelest month…” and it is National Poetry Month. I probably write more on this blog about poetry than about anything else. Poetry is art that sustains me; it is the quiet commentary on my day. Little things all around me call to mind lines from poems; my inner life lives in the company of poems. I am reminded of the George Bradley poem “Paideia” which begins:

My poems are my children, and I swear
on the graves of my ancestors
I never laid a hand on them,
not even when they exasperated me,
when caring for them left me exhausted
and their cries in the night disturbed my sleep.

I rarely write poetry; I read it and memorize it. Writing real poems seems to me like enormously hard work. But poetry is such an enormous part of my private life, such a part of my joy (and in fact all of my emotions), that when Michael Ansara invited me to help start the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, I knew there was only one answer. Last year we managed to pull of an incredible festival in Lowell, with readings by Marjorie Agosin, Lucie Brock-Broido, Martín Espada, Rhina Espaillat, Regie Gibson, Robert Pinsky, Nick Flynn, and Ed Sanders that left me wanting for more. I ended up buying many more volumes of poetry following the festival than I should have, but “Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. / There is no happiness like mine. / I have been eating poetry.” I was particularly thrilled to hear Robert Pinsky read one of my favorite poems, Samurai Song.

We had so much fun with last year’s festival, we are organizing it again – again in Lowell (Jack Keraouc’s hometown), this time October 16 & 17. I’m hosting a couple of planning meetings in April at EchoDitto’s Cambridge office – the first one is tonight! – so please ping me if you’d like to come. We need all the help we can get!

Africa Reading

April 4, 2009

My friend and colleague Chris is headed to Africa next week for a long, well-deserved vacation. I was trying to think of what reading I could recommend on Africa — good vacation reading, good travel reading — and realized how little I have read about the continent of my birth. I immediately thought of Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow, a stunning novel about going to Africa, although not particularly African. It is an astonishing ode to Living and strikes me as fine vacation reading.

I only recently read Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood by Alexandra Walker; it is a very different book from Henderson the Rain King — a memoir about growing up in Rhodesia / ZImbabwe. It is a very dark book in some ways — but she is such a terrific writer that it is unstoppable. The smells and sounds, the very feeling of the tropics comes through with enormous intensity.

The final two books were not Africa related but were good reading for a long traveling vacation. Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters by Annie Dillard is serious, thoughful, artful, and just plain beautiful. The first thing you should do is read the chapter “Living like Weasels”. Nothing else in the book matters. I’m not even sure I can remember anything else in the book – but that one essay burns brightly in my memory, and I return to it often. It is rocket fuel – perfect for rejuvenating the mind and the spirit while away from home.

Finally, all travel requires poems. Still Life with Waterfall: Poems by Eamon Grennan is my regular companion. This book has my favorite all-time break-up poem and my favorite all-time love poem. The break up poem is called “To Grasp the Nettle” and it is on page 20. The Love poem is called “White Water” and it is on page 42. Fantods are butterflies in the stomach.

I made one small request of Chris. I asked him to find one night in Africa when the moon is high and full and brilliant. Step outside and read out loud, speaking to the sky, the poem “Full Moon” on page 54 of “Still Life with Waterfall”… “and start breathing.”

A letter to my son at 10 weeks old

March 10, 2009

You are almost three months old. Ninety days. Twelve weeks. The world already looks like a different place. During your short life a lot has happened: a new president, a terrifying economy, a snowy winter giving way to a wet spring. I still don’t know how to play the piano. I have not written as many poems as I had hoped. Your mother grows more beautiful by the day. I walk the dog every night. The dog continues to carefully observe the squirrels’ routine, preparing. I struggle with my work and my weight. The same books stare at me from the bedside table. I despair at the state of my basement study.

Every night I hold you and I hear another instrument enter the arrangement; your life is full of promise and mystery. I try to imagine your future; I am certain it will be different than mine, but how? You will not grow up with monkeys in the backyard, or large lizards in the driveway. There will be no mongoose creeping around your bedroom window, no ever-present geckos on the walls, clucking you to sleep. “I want to tell what the forests were like / I will have to speak in a forgotten language.” The tropical insects will not sing you to sleep; the monsoon rain will not leave you in a thundering stormy silence.

Or maybe I assume too much. Maybe I will convince your mother to move to the tropics, to live in some fabled rainforest, shrouded in mist, and somehow manage a living. What will you discover in your life? Will you be a scuba diver, reveling in the mysteries of the ocean? Will you walk on another planet, or at least the moon? What will the stars offer you? What beautiful things will you see in math? What animals will you share your life with? What plants will you cultivate and come to love?

The physical world has always called to me, but somehow my modern life, my chosen vocation, takes me far afield from the natural and instead deep into the machine, the mechanical, the virtual, the intangible. Sometimes I feel lost in that library of Borges. That’s why I imagine for you a life rich in the astonishing varieties of nature, full of the earth. I am reminded of a Charlie Smith poem called “Modern Art” but suddenly I cannot remember any of the words.

A life of art; A life of science; A life of discovery; A life of love. These are the things I desire for you, the prayer I say each night for my little boy. Tonight the moon is one phase shy of full, but it fills the night sky despite the clouds:

Full Moon

Clouds curdle round it, crack open, let it through.
Radiance shaded by cloudshapes; fat fruit
of incandescence; sphere of peeled silver. I wonder
what living by such light would be: soft
collusion of moonshine with grey gables; walls
in a whitewashed trance; argentine grass; twigs
limned in pewter. Ambition and rage all faded
from the air, the air subdued to a new sense
of self, something intimate and sure about the way
it whispers subtle truths neighbor to neighbor–
or how its ashen luminescence slides inside things
so they shed the cinder skin of what goes on
day by day in daylight, and start breathing.

By Eamon Grennan

Asa Archibald Mele

January 3, 2009

This morning, at 7:05 am in Boston, my beautiful wife completed the feat of her life: she gave birth naturally to a boy, Asa Archibald Mele. Both Morra and Asa are happy and healthy. is up and running. And I took a poem I loved and re-wrote it for the occasion:

Prayer for Asa

Dear Lord, fire-eating custodian of my soul,
creator of the volcanoes and finches’ wings,
guardian of lost dogs and wayward alley cats,
please protect this wet-cheeked baby from disabling griefs.
Grant him curiosity as broad as the expanse of the oceans
and ambition in his chosen ventures like the Ancient Romans.
Let him be inspired by the stark beauty of the Grand Canyon
and piqued by the mystery of the Northern Lights.
Allow him personal courage in his every action,
whether it be telling a friend hard truths or slaying
threatening beasts. Give him a constancy in tribulation
and sound nerves for every crisis, from the missing sock
to the world’s bigger disasters. Provide him a world of
delight and imagination, from the beetles of the jungle
and giraffes of the savannah to the astonishment
of molten sand becoming blown glass. Send him the world over,
discovering a discerning palate from kimchi to nasi lemak.
Give him his mother’s erudite vocabulary,
and her intense athletic poise.
Bless him with musical gifts unknown to his parents;
help him sense when to grin and when to roar.
May exuberance be his inheritance.
“Bravely, he has ventured among us, disguised
as a new comer, shedding remarkably few tears.”

by Nicco Mele

(based on Amy Gerstler’s poem “Prayer for Jackson“)

Time for a nap. We’ve been up for more than two days; Morra went into labor the morning of New Year’s Day.

New Year's Day – still waiting!

January 1, 2009

No baby yet. So I’ve been going through some old photos and videos and posting them online, trying to recall my own early years. I just uploaded a set named Nicco Growing Up to Flickr. And earlier this morning I uploaded to YouTube some old family videos – Super8s – that I got from my folks a while back. There is no sound – because in the olden days there was no sound with Super8 videos:

More to come…