30 Objects in 30 Essays
From the objects that I have made, objects other people have made, objects that I live with, and what they have to say. The products of hands and brains. The obvious differences between things and words. The tangible and intangible rewards of effort. Use and beauty as the two primary qualities of objects, words, hands and brains. For through objects we make the stories of our lives: a life made, a life bought, a life well-used, a life beautiful and useful.
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I own a Japanese white steel bench chisel that cost $150. It holds an edge like none other. It is a pleasure to use. It is beautiful. It was a bargain. I'd drop the same for it in a heartbeat.
Do you wrinkle your nose at the cost? Believe that a $15 Irwin chisel is just as good? You'd dare me to show the difference between the shavings? Or possibly you have no idea why anyone would buy a chisel in the first place, or make furniture at all? Ikea sells perfectly good furniture, and for much less than buying the tools and materials necessary to make it.
I find that more than $10,000 for a car is a ridiculous and unnecessary sum to spend. $20 for a haircut is my limit. More than that, and I'd feel as if I was putting on airs, or being robbed. You might think I'm cheap in these ways. Or profligate and pretentious with chisels.
But we just have different senses of perceived value in the objects in our lives.
A playful truism: that something is only worth what a person will pay for it.
In strict business terms, this is true, and even useful. Have you ever been insulted by a low-ball offer? And then not sold an item because no one was willing to pay what you felt it was worth?
In personal terms, money can nothing to do with the worth of an object. This series is about that kind of worth: memory, usefulness, associations, beauty, meaning. How much my Castle bed cost to make is irrelevant to what it means to me.
There is a third kind of value. Some objects have a kind of negative value. They have weight, instead of worth. These are the objects you want to get rid of. Even if they're physically gone, their associations persist. You want to forget them, but can't, not entirely. Perceived value, both monetary and personal, comes from the hodgepodge of our unique experiences, circumstances, desires, needs, and much more. What we will spend for any one object depends on us; some objects we will never part with for money. Other objects we can't pay enough to forget.
To this day I can conjure up a vivid image of a pair of brown shoes I had in the 7th grade. Light brown suede. Diagonal same-color suede stripes, two on either side, saw tooth edges. Rounded flat toe. High-edged yellow crepe sole with circle indents for grip on the bottom. Same-color suede laces. I can even feel my feet in them. Soft like a running shoe, but heavy like a dress shoe.
This is the story of those shoes, and the cost of getting rid of them.
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In the 7th grade, I went to a fancy private school North of Milwaukee. I had to wear a jacket and tie to class. The bus ride was an hour long one way. If I fit a clique, it was Geek, specifically the physically-uncoordinated math nerds who played Dungeons and Dragons on the bus and were terrified by girls.
But I loved sports. I grew up idolizing the Green Bay Packers. I dressed as one for Halloween when I was 8, complete with cardboard helmet. I loved the Milwaukee Brewers and the Bucks. Once I got to see a Brewer’s game. A friend’s dad took me and my friend. We sat in the bleachers and dreamed of a catching a home run ball. We ate hot dogs. It was the best ever.
There were two afterschool sports for boys, Football in the Fall, and Softball in the Spring. I desperately wanted to play both. To be on a team was somehow a huge step towards achieving manhood. It was to be accepted by my fellow boys. To score the winning goal, to receive the beaming adulation of my friends—this was everything.
However, there were a few obstacles in the way of achieving this dream.
To start, I was simply not physically fit. I was asthmatic and got short of breath easily. I had a birth defect in my nose, one nostril always blocked, therefore always infected. It ran green and yellow snots all the time. When I exercised, my nose ran more. I would carry a tissue or two, but would often run out of them, so I’d blow it on the ground, or wipe it on my sleeve or shorts if I was indoors. My knees hurt all the time, especially when I ran. I’m still not sure why. I remember blaming it on an ice-skating accident, but that doesn’t make sense now. I was deathly allergic to peanuts, mildly to cats and dogs, probably to hay and dust. I produced lots of vomit and hives growing up.
Secondly, I was not physically coordinated or strong. Throwing a ball was a random affair. No matter the size or shape, it would veer in odd, unintended directions. Footballs wobbled weakly through the air like a cartwheel. Baseballs intended for second base went more towards first base, or bounced ten feet in front of the intended receiver. Basketballs wouldn’t even reach the backboard.
In PE class, I was one of those disaster kids. The kid everyone avoided. Get too close, you might get hit with a stray booger. Always the last picked for a team in Dodge Ball. Always the first out.
The PE teacher, Mr. MacDonald, a man whose eldest son played on the US Olympic Hockey team, had a hard time disguising his disgust for me. Once, after an extended period of shouted directions intended as instruction and encouragement in trying to throw a Frisbee, I stopped and shouted back that I wasn’t a jock. That comment broke the man. He ran at me, stopping an inch from my face, his eyes flashing with rage, and like the drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket, screamed his way through the full litany of my sports failings -- demanding to know why something so simple as throwing in a straight line was impossible, why I refused to try because five minutes of trying was all that was necessary, why I refused to participate in this universal human capacity for hand-eye coordination, and why I imagined, that required “being a jock.” These are valid questions, and he was right to ask on all counts. I had no answer.
But I so wanted to play on the school team.
Lucky for me, there wasn’t a cut. Everyone who wanted to join the team could. How much I would play was another matter. Probably for 1 minute in the fourth quarter of a game we were winning 100-0. I could hope for that. It didn’t matter, though. What was important was being on the team. That meant social acceptance. That meant manhood.
As the school was wealthy, all the equipment was provided, with one exception. For the football team, I had to provide cleats. For the softball team, I had to provide a softball mitt.
But then there was the third problem: my parents and perceived value.
Growing up, we lived in a big, beautiful house. My father owned a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. My sister and I attended a private school. By all measures we were a rich family. On the other hand, all my clothes came from second-hand stores, including my jacket and ties for school (‘he’s just going to grow out of them’ I recall hearing—my father mocked my uncle as a supreme idiot for buying his five children only new clothes and wasting so much money). We almost never went on vacations (another collosal waste of money unless a museum or cultural site was involved). When we went to restaurants, the only options were the cheapest items on the menu (ordering something more expensive was arrogant and presumptive). When we lived in Paris for a year, we ate at all of the Three-Star restaurants; where, again, the only option was the cheapest item on the menu. At Christmas and birthdays, there would be an extensive array of gifts for me and my sister, bought from lists provided to my parents months in advance. My parents did all the house maintenance, from cleaning and fixing the heating system to painting the windows and repairing plumbing. Do you see a pattern?
Over dinner, my mother would go on at length about how poor we were, the things we couldn’t afford, and how difficult it was to just make do. Notably, I recall my father dressing down my mother in very sharp tones for having given me a third glass of milk when I was thirsty. It was a pointless expense when my thirst could as easily be satisfied with water. I tried to stop drinking milk because I knew it disappointed my father. We were poor and couldn’t afford it. I felt guilty when I drank it. While you might detect some cognitive dissonance, in what my family spent money on and hat it didn’t, it all made perfect sense to me at the time. Some of it still does.
So, asking my parents for a pair of cleats so I could play football was a tricky proposition. I didn’t know how to predict their perceived value of such a purchase. We were too poor, I would tell myself, and I shouldn’t ask. It would be selfish to ask. Sacrifices would have to be made elsewhere in the family. But I wanted to play so very much, so I risked asking.
I got a sideways answer from my mom that involved the necessity to ask dad. Eventually, the word came back, that, no, I had a perfectly good pair of shoes for sports, and should use them.
At the time, I owned one pair of shoes. They were those all-purpose kid shoes that had their moment in the 70’s -- brown suede, so they looked vaguely formal, but had a tennis shoe sole so you could conceivably use them for sports. When other kids changed their clothes for gym class and put on running or tennis shoes, I put on the same shoes I wore to math class. Yes. I felt embarrassment.
While my clothes were all second hand, my shoes came from an old-fashioned shoe store, run by an old man who personally fit all his customers. I forget his name, if I ever knew it.
Coming into the store, I would admire the gumball machine that required a nickel I never had while my mother would tell him what my shoe needs were. Though there were twenty chairs for shoe fitting, the place was always nearly empty and quiet. Shoes lined the walls, with cabinets below. There was a curtained door to a back room. The man would sit me down, ask me to take off one shoe, then place my foot onto a metal gauge for sizing, pushing my foot down in places as if he was pressing clay into a form.
I recall my feet always felt hot and sweaty. It made me nervous that this near-stranger would touch my feet at all, and his manipulation felt very strange. Standing on the cold metal gauge would send a shiver up my leg. The man would then press the curved measuring edges to my toe, capturing it, and to my insole, tickling it. He would then lift my foot up off the gauge when he was done, stand up and disappear into the back room.
I don’t recall buying the all-in-one shoes at the old man’s shoe store. They might have caught my eye and I thought they were cool. I might have been sternly required to accept them. Memory is not a fixed place, it is a fluid environment meant to help us survive in the future. The details I remember were all vetted on this principle.
The brown shoes were perfectly fine for basketball and dodge ball, especially considering my abilities. They didn’t even look much out of place. (Ok, you might think that brown suede is certainly out of place on a basketball court, but this was the 70’s). However, I worried about using them for football, as I had been told to provide cleats; but a No from my parents was No. I would use my brown shoes.
The first day of football practice, I got my pile of equipment from the school locker room, got suited up, and put on my brown shoes, hoping nobody would notice. Nobody did.
I ran sprints. I did jumping jacks. Nobody noticed.
I ran a receiving pattern, and my brown shoes turned into ice skates. I slid several feet to the side and fell once, another time I kicked a foot out, above my head, to remain upright. I felt noticed.
The football coach was Mr. Kerr, a former marine who still sported a flattop. He was also my math teacher, known for his gruff style (he’d shout “Who pulled your chain?” at any kid who spoke out of turn. The wrong answer would often get a "Close but no cigar!" We were all on a last-name basis) He played at being tough. We played at being afraid. He was a favorite. I loved math class. I thought Mr. Kerr was the best.
After practice Mr. Kerr pulled me aside privately.
“Purdy. Wear your cleats next time.”
“Sorry Mr. Kerr,” I mumbled back at him, red-faced under my helmet.
I may have asked my mom again for cleats that night. I probably didn’t.
The next day I suited up again, and did my best at practice; but afterwards, Mr. Kerr told me that I could not play without them. I returned to my locker, broken-hearted.
Now, middle-school locker rooms are generally very dangerous places for snot-nosed geeks. Mine was no exception. Horrifyingly, my locker was right next to one of the worst school bullies, an 8th grader of epic strength, athletic prowess, and a keen enjoyment of ridicule and minor physical punishment, especially via snapped towels. I used all strategies to avoid him, from knowing his class schedule to ensure he wasn’t going to be in the locker when I used it, as well as learning Olympic speed levels of locker use, just in case. The problem was he was also on the football team, which combined 7th and 8th grade boys. We had to suit up at the same time.
As I worked my combination, the bully started in with his usual comments.
“You are such a faggot fuck-up, Purdy. Running around like a chicken on the field. You Spaz.”
“Don’t worry, I’m quitting,” I explained.
“What? Why?” In a tone that was devoid of ridicule. It was a genuine question. I was flabbergasted.
“Because I don’t have cleats. My parents won’t get me cleats. We’re too poor,” slid out the reply that was like a loaded confession to a therapist. Who confesses to a bully? I did.
The bully didn’t reply.
I handed over my gear to Mr. Kerr on the way out that day, explaining to him that I didn’t want to play. I was no good at sports. The last thing I could do was tell him the truth. I had to cover my for my family’s poverty. It would be too embarrassing to admit it. My parents would be angry. I forget Mr. Kerr’s reply, except that he was kind, and encouraged me to stay on as team manager. In terror, I declined, joking that I’d screw that job up for sure. In reality, I would have found it too painful to watch the games that I so dearly wanted to be in. And I’d be teased for being a pussy and not playing. It was better to avoid the games entirely. Better to hide.
The next day after gym class, the bully appeared out of nowhere as I was changing clothes. I nearly shat my pants. We were alone, a highly dangerous situation. I thought of bolting past him, but knew he was quicker. I stood motionless, like a rabbit in an open field that has just seen a fox. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice me if I didn’t move at all.
“Hey Purdy, I have an old pair of cleats you could use. They’re in good shape. You can have them. I don’t want them back. I think they’re your size.” He said it in an honest tone. It was a genuine offer.
Second flabbergasting. I stammered a refusal. The offer felt impossible. It wasn’t right. A jock bully offering assistance to a snot-nosed geek broke several fundamental laws of the universe, down to Plank-scale level foundations. It had to be a ruse. A bucket of shit would fall on me if I took them and laughter from a hidden audience would start. I would get in trouble. It would somehow lead to problems. My parents would find out and be super angry. The bully insisted with a kind smile. I confirmed the refusal, turned and walked away.
And that was the end of my interest in football.
A week or so later, my mom asked why I wasn’t playing football. The answer was obvious, I thought. I had told her that I needed cleats. I had asked twice. Hadn’t I? She had rejected the needed-cleats as an unreasonable demand on family finances. Her repeated question apparently indicated that I needed to give her an answer that satisfied the family situation. I needed to lie. So I told her that football was dumb, which is what I believed my dad thought (he once disparaged another uncle for criticizing him for taking me to a museum and not a football game). I’m sure that’s what she told my father, if he had asked. In any event, I felt I was in no position to question my parents' authority.
I never played football, not in middle school, nor in high school. I learned to despise sports, and ennoble academic pursuits. I was better at them anyway.
But I did play two years of softball. In those brown shoes. I used my sister’s mitt. It had “A. Purdy” written on the side. That was also an embarrassment, but a manageable one. In the 7th grade, I played right field on the 7th grade team. In the 8th grade I played right field on the 7th grade team. Once, I caught a fly ball on the run, making a third out with a man on base. I heard two teammates actually cheer. My coach, Mr. Rodkey, jokingly asked what the hell happened out there, and I was proud for having impressed him. It was perhaps the smallest of sports moments, but it was everything at the time.
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Like most objects, those brown all-in-one shoes were a simple tool. They kept my feet warm and safe through the 7th grade. I should have forgotten them with all those other common place daily objects. Hats. Socks. Gloves. Underwear, No memory whatsoever. What toys I had then? I don’t recall any of them. They conjure nothing.
The brown shoes conjure up the defeat of never having played a sport I loved. Learning to hate sports. Learning to tell white lies to hide my fears. Learning to run instead of fight. Indeed, I was a middle school loser. I was afraid. I was probably clinically depressed. The memory of those shoes now contain those memories, a pair of little memory palaces.
Star Wars suggests that fear drives the child to the Dark Side, towards violence and destruction. For me, fear drove self-annihilation. I didn’t value myself much. I didn’t stand up for what I wanted. It was somehow better to not exist. Not have needs. No conflict. Then tomorrow would be less overwhelming, and possible.
I don’t blame my parents for this struggle and loss. I don’t even hold them responsible. They were doing their best, and meant me no harm. Their system of perceived value for how money should be spent is no better or worse than most others. I was fed. Given a roof over my head. Sent to good schools. This is much, much more than a lot of kids get from their parents, and I owe simple gratitude for all they did. More importantly, I could have reacted in a hundred other ways. I could have bargained or argued with them. I could have asked my grandmother for cleats. Most importantly, I could have accepted the bully’s offer. I could have told Mr. Kerr the truth. I could have told my mother the truth. I could have reached out to someone. All of those reactions might have ended with my one-minute-on-the-field. But I did none of them. I didn’t have it in me. All it would have taken was the tiniest bit of courage. A scintilla of courage to fight of my life, the kind that Eddie eventually finds in It. I didn’t have it.
It was those irrational fear-responses, not my parents, that served as scaffolding on which I built that reflexive self-annihilation. Later came Joy Division. Two parasuicides. Dropping out of graduate school.
The self-inflicted horror-clown comedy of my youth took a long time to dissipate. Out of it I’ve grown a perfectly healthy sense of worth and purpose in life. Finding faith, marrying a wonderful woman, and raising two great kids were each foundation stones in that maturity. Learning to design and make furniture that people enjoyed using was another factor. What is lost can be found. What speaks of failure can be salvaged. The work was to sort and sift the fractal labyrinth of age-old, half-remembered acts and consequences, to find the switches and levers on the tracks of our lives, then switch the mistakes to their glowing double, redeem the bad circular self-involved paths with open-ends, no longer be what I hate, but something better. A new pair of shoes to wear and walk and dance in. And then continue the comedy of life: we all avoid our parents’ perceived mistakes to create new ones with our kids.
The time and energy I have spent to make those shoes a memory that doesn't burn a hole in my head, are the costs of maturity. Well spent, every penny.
When my son was five, we took him to a learn-to-skate event. He fell in love with it, and played hockey on a travel team through middle and high school. He got to know what being on a team meant, what it took, what it gave. I found paying $500 for a new pair of hockey skates was expensive, but totally worth it. On the other hand, both my kids were given a lot of second-hand clothes. After all, there’s really no reason to buy new, because they’re going to grow out of it anyway…
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