#38 - Wishbones

Wishbones

8/10/04 (#38)

Thoughts are like the actions of a kinetic sculpture.

You know what kinetic sculptures are, even if you don't recognize the name. They are an elaborate cause-and-effect apparatus in which a steel ball is transported up via vertical conveyor, released onto a grooved rail at the top of the structure where it proceeds on a long, precipitous journey that involves hitting levers that trigger other actions, rolling over xylophones and striking bells until eventually gravity gives way to physical space and the ball is deposited at the base of the vertical conveyor to begin again.

The more elaborate of these structures involve many balls in motion at one time, each pursuing a different path down the giant erector-set framework. The repercussions of one path often impacts the course of other balls on separate tracks---for instance, one path involves a pan that catches the ball, but only when the pan has collected 5 balls will the weight be enough to cause the pan to move, and these five balls will simultaneously begin a second leg of the journey, all in unison, until another intentional obstacle changes their path. When all of the balls are in motion, it is a cacophony of clanks and dings, seemingly chaotic and yet each steel pawn traversing a logical, even inevitable path.

And that's how thoughts are like kinetic sculpture: We get so many of them running at one time, a din of cause-and-effect results, and yet each one is a logical inevitability. It's fun to follow one particular thought as it journeys through the maze, observing the friction that it encounters, marvelling at the complex results that can be triggered by the simplest of causes.

Sometimes, something as simple as a wishbone.

I have been a homeowner for 5 years. Recently I was washing dishes at the kitchen window when I noticed that our windowsill looked like a careful reproduction of my Mom's windowsill in Maine, which itself seems to be an homage to the first kitchen windowsill I had known in Massachusetts, where I spent the first eleven years of my life. Each of these sun-lit window frames acted as de facto resting places for an assortment of kitchen oddities, including one or two wine corks, a couple of plumbing washers, screw-top lids to long lost jars, a walnut-sized rock of unknown origin, and a small recycled can holding a steak knife handle sans blade, miscellaneous unmatched nuts and bolts, and a small collection of wishbones that hung over the edge of the can like so many miniature walrus tusks.

Ding. Wishbones make me think of turkeys.

Clang. Turkeys make me think of farms.

Bong. Farms make me think of petting zoos.

Clank. Petting zoos make me think of elementary school field trips.

Ching. Which makes me think of lunch bags.

Growing up in Massachusetts in the early 1970's (back in the day when public schools were fully funded), my elementary schools went on field trips on a regular basis: The Boston Museum of Science (dinosaurs, electricity, tidal waves, aerodynamics, ad infinitum for the curious mind); Sturbridge Village (a hamlet assembled as a living replica of life in the 1700s, complete with bonnets, blacksmiths, and butter churns); Capron Park (Buffalo, Polar Bears, and the endlessly amusing "monkey house".)(The term "monkey house" is no longer politically correct---they prefer to be called primates now---but these were unenlightened times.) For each of these outings, we were required to bring a signed permission slip, a few dollars for the entry fee, and a bag lunch.

My mom is an artist at heart, and whenever she sent me off with a bag lunch for our field trip, she would sketch a quick drawing on the bag that was appropriate to the journey of the day: A dinosaur for the Museum of Science trips, a peacock for Capron Park, etc. The purely functional advantage of these sketches was to allow for easy identification of my bag when the gaggle of children ran back to the bus to collect our lunches at midday, but it was more than purely functional for me-each was a drawing of how much I mattered, and I was proud to have personalized bags when my classmates had blandly labelled sacks reading "Dan P." and "John S." Even at that age, I was a sentimental sort. Each lunch sack was a warm wave goodbye from Mom that lasted all day. (Or until I crumpled it up after lunch.)

Of course, there came a day when I no longer wanted the turkeys and tyrannosaurs sketched on my lunch bags. Pictures were for little kids, and I craved the simple "Bill R.", as if my 9-year-old frame might pass for adult if only my bag didn't exhibit the smiling face of a cartoon alligator. I have no recollection of how I told my Mom that her artwork was no longer necessary, but I pray that I was tactful. However, the words "tactful" and "elementary school student" are rarely used in the same sentence without a term of negation, so I suspect I hurt her feelings. (Fortunately, I was a fourth child, so Mom had likely seen this particularly type of rebellion several times before my exhibition of it.)

I stood washing dishes, wistfully thinking of those lunch bags and my mom and my own daughter when another unexpected clank of the kinetic structure occurred: All of these windowsills featured wishbones. I had never contemplated it at the time, but I feel incredibly fortunate that I grew up in a house where we didn't need to expend our wishes the moment they were granted to us, that they could be saved for a rainy day. Perhaps this reflects what our parents taught us---you succeed by working toward your goals, by earning your life rather than merely wishing for it.

Or perhaps it shows that my parents worked very hard to ensure that our lives had very few rainy days.

©2004 wpreagan