Tag: nostalgia

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Aging Citizens Band Radio History Living

The Static We Left Behind

There was a time when the airwaves crackled with a distinct, unpolished kind of magic. It wasn’t the curated broadcast of a corporate radio station, but the raw, spontaneous voices of strangers sharing the same lonely stretch of highway or suburban night. When I previously wrote about the rise and decline of CB radio, I didn’t fully anticipate how deeply the piece would resonate. The influx of emails, comments, and shared memories pointed to a singular, striking truth: we don’t just miss the hardware of the 1970s; we miss the serendipity of the connection it offered.

In the decades since the fiberglass whip antenna faded from the American automotive silhouette, our society has become infinitely more “connected.” We carry glass slabs in our pockets capable of reaching anyone, anywhere, in an instant. Yet, paradoxically, we often find ourselves feeling more profoundly isolated. The modern digital landscape is largely an algorithmic echo chamber, meticulously designed to feed us reflections of what we already know and who we already are.

CB radio, by contrast, was a geographic lottery. You turned the dial, adjusted the squelch, and were instantly thrust into a transient community composed entirely of whoever happened to be within your physical radius. It was messy, chaotic, occasionally absurd, and deeply human. It was a localized town square operating on a 27 MHz frequency.

“We traded the spontaneous for the scheduled. We swapped the local for the global… We traded the crackle of static for the endless, frictionless scroll of the feed.”

Reflecting on the quiet that eventually fell over Channel 19, it becomes clear that the decline of CB radio was more than just a technological shift—it was a cultural one. We traded the spontaneous for the scheduled. We swapped the local for the global, and the intimately anonymous for the hyper-public. We traded the crackle of static for the endless, frictionless scroll of the feed.

But the fundamental human impulse that fueled the CB craze never actually disappeared. The desire to reach out into the dark void and hear a human voice echo back—the spirit of “Breaker 1-9, is anyone out there?”—remains hardwired into our psychology. We see fragmented echoes of it today in late-night Reddit threads, in niche Discord servers, and in the fleeting, unscripted interactions of multiplayer gaming. We are all still, in our own ways, searching for a shared frequency.

Perhaps the true legacy of the CB radio isn’t a cautionary tale of obsolescence, but a gentle reminder. It reminds us that in our highly polished, curated digital world, there is still immense, undeniable value in the unscripted encounter. We haven’t lost the need to connect; we are simply navigating a world with too much noise and too few open channels.

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Interstate 280 San Francisco/California San Jose

The Scenic Route Home

“In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art.”

It is a strange paradox that in the heart of Silicon Valley—a place defined by the ephemeral, the digital, and the instantaneous—a cherished shared experience is a physical ribbon of highway that hasn’t changed much in fifty years.

My post from last April, “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway,” has recently found a new wave of readers. I’ve been asking myself: Why? Why does a blog post about Interstate 280, written by a retiree exploring local history, resonate so deeply right now?

Perhaps it’s because I-280 is more than just a commute. As I noted in the original piece, even Sunset Magazine in 1967 recognized it as “a modern and scenic boulevard.” It was a bold claim for a freeway, yet it stuck. While its sibling, US 101, is a clogged artery of billboard-choked utility, 280 feels like a deep breath. It is the “scenic route” we are lucky enough to take right in our own backyard.

There is a powerful nostalgia in that drive. We all remember the sign that used to sit in the median near Cupertino—the one that literally proclaimed it “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway”—before it vanished. We remember the way the fog rolls over the Santa Cruz Mountains, spilling into the crystal bowl of the reservoir.

But I think the recent interest goes deeper than pretty scenery. We are living in an era of rapid, often disorienting change. I used ChatGPT to help research the history of that road, a small testament to how AI is weaving into our daily inquiries. Yet, the road itself remains a constant. It was designed by engineers like Othmar Ammann and planners who chose the harder, more expensive route through the foothills rather than paving over El Camino Real. They chose beauty over pure efficiency.

That choice resonates today. In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art. It connects the headquarters of the companies building our future (Apple, Google, Meta) with the wild, golden hills of California’s past. It is a physical timeline of the Peninsula.

Maybe we are revisiting this post because we are craving that balance. We want to know that even as we rush toward the future at freeway speeds, we can still look out the window and see something timeless, something beautiful, something that reminds us where we are.

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Living Television

The Drift of the Vertical Hold

There is a specific kind of frustration reserved for things that almost work.

In the 1950s, television wasn’t the seamless, high-definition portal we know today. It was a temperamental guest in the living room, prone to static, ghosts, and the dreaded vertical roll. When the “vertical hold” failed, the image would begin to slide—first slowly, then into a dizzying, rhythmic tumble.

“It used to drive my Dad crazy when the screen would start rolling and even have to get up out of his chair and adjust the vertical hold. It would seem to hold for a few minutes and then it would start rolling again. It drove him nuts.”

I remember my Dad in those moments. The rolling screen didn’t just disrupt the program; it seemed to pull at his very patience. It was one of the rare times we might hear him mutter a swear word. He would have to leave the comfort of his chair to fiddle with the dial. He’d tweak it with surgical precision until the picture locked into place. He would sit back down, satisfied for a moment, only to see the image begin its slow, inevitable upward crawl once again.

It was a battle against the “drift.”

We don’t have vertical hold dials anymore. Our screens are perfect, locked in digital amber. Yet, I find that the feeling of the vertical hold remains a central part of the human condition. We spend our lives trying to “lock in” our circumstances—our careers, our relationships, our sense of self. We get up, we make the adjustment, we sit back down, and for a few minutes, the picture of our life looks exactly how it’s supposed to.

But life, by its nature, has a tendency to drift.

The rolling screen was a reminder that the transmission was fragile. Perhaps my Dad’s frustration wasn’t just about missing a few minutes of a show, but about the realization that he couldn’t force the world to stay still. We are all, in some way, standing behind the television set of our own lives, fingers on the dial, trying to keep the image from sliding into the static.

There is a quiet philosophy in that 1950s living room: the hold is never permanent. The beauty isn’t in a perfectly locked picture that lasts forever, but in the willingness to get out of the chair and try to find the focus again, over and over.

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Living Writing

The Loop and the Pixel

There is a distinct muscle memory associated with the 1950s classroom. It smells of chalk dust and floor wax, but mostly, it feels like the cramping of a small hand wrapped around a pencil. We didn’t just learn to write; we were initiated into the discipline of the loop. The Palmer Method or Zaner-Bloser weren’t suggestions—they were rigorous architectures of communication. We made endless rows of O’s and l’s, tilting the paper just so, learning that language required flow, connectivity, and a certain deliberate grace.

Then, the world sped up.

By the 1990s, the loops began to unravel. As keyboards clattered their way into dominance, the efficiency of the printed letter—and eventually the typed pixel—took precedence over the artistry of the connected script. By 2010, the erasure was formalized; cursive was dropped from federal education standards (Common Core) to make room for “electronic literacy.” We traded the unique signature for the standardized font. We gained speed, certainly, but I often wonder what we lost in the translation.

“New Jersey this week joined a list of more than 20 states slanting in favor of bringing cursive instruction back to classrooms. Lessons on the looping letters were dropped from federal education standards in 2010, part of a shift toward focusing on electronic literacy.” — The New York Times

It seems the pendulum is swinging back. Proponents argue for its utility—the ability to read historical texts or a grandmother’s birthday card—but I believe the resurgence touches on something deeper.

In an increasingly digital world, cursive is an act of resistance. Typing is percussion; it is staccato and disconnected. Cursive is string; it is continuous and fluid. When we write in cursive, we are physically connecting thoughts, linking one letter to the next without lifting the pen. It forces the brain to slow down and the hand to dance.

As we stare into screens that demand our instant reaction, perhaps we are realizing that we crave the friction of pen on paper. We are bringing the loops back not because they are faster, but because they are human.

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Apple

When “Today at Apple” Lost Its Spark: A Fan’s Disappointment

Sketch Walk at an Apple Store

I used to be one of those people who’d eagerly check the “Today at Apple” schedule at my local Apple Store. There was something magical about walking into that sleek, glass-walled space and knowing I was about to learn something new—something creative. Whether it was a deep dive into photo editing on the iPad, a music production workshop with GarageBand, or even a coding session with Swift Playgrounds, these courses felt like a gateway to unlocking the full potential of Apple’s tools. They weren’t just tutorials; they were experiences that left you inspired, with skills you could actually use.

That was before Covid hit. Like so many things, “Today at Apple” had to adapt, and I get it—health and safety first. But what started as a necessary pivot to online sessions has, over time, turned into something else entirely. The program I once loved has been stripped down to the basics, and honestly, it’s disappointing.

The Golden Days of “Today at Apple”

Let me take you back. Picture this: It’s 2019, and I’m sitting in an Apple Store, surrounded by other curious minds, as an instructor walks us through advanced storytelling techniques using Final Cut Pro. We’re not just learning how to trim clips; we’re learning how to craft a narrative, how to use pacing and sound to evoke emotion. By the end of the session, I felt like I’d leveled up—not just in software proficiency, but in creativity. That was the beauty of “Today at Apple” back then. It wasn’t about teaching you the bare minimum; it was about pushing you to explore what was possible.

And it wasn’t just me. I’d see people of all ages—kids, professionals, retirees—engaging with these courses, each walking away with something valuable. The program had depth. It had variety. It had soul.

The Post-Covid Shift

Then came 2020. The world shut down, and so did the in-store “Today at Apple” program. When the program finally returned in person, it wasn’t the same. Gone were the advanced courses that challenged you to think differently. Instead, the curriculum now feels like a series of “Intro to [Insert Apple Product Here]” sessions.

Take the photography workshops, for example. Pre-Covid, you could attend a course on mastering manual camera settings or creating a photo essay. Now? It’s “How to Take a Great Photo with Your iPhone”—a session that, while useful for beginners, barely scratches the surface for anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with the Camera app. It’s like going from a masterclass to a quick-start guide.

Why This Matters

I know what you’re thinking: “It’s just a free course at an Apple Store. What did you expect?” Fair point. But here’s the thing—Apple has always positioned itself as a company that champions creativity. Their entire brand is built on the idea that their tools can help you “think different” and create something extraordinary. “Today at Apple” was a tangible extension of that ethos. It was a way for Apple to say, “Hey, we’re not just selling you a device; we’re giving you the skills to make something amazing with it.”

Now, it feels like they’re just checking a box. The courses are still there, but the heart is gone. It’s as if Apple has decided that most users only need the basics, and that’s a shame. Because the people who showed up to those advanced sessions? They were the ones pushing the boundaries, the ones who saw Apple’s tools as more than just gadgets—they saw them as instruments of creation.

A Plea to Apple

So, Apple, here’s my plea: Bring back the depth. Bring back the courses that challenge us, that inspire us to go beyond the basics. You’ve got the resources, the talent, and the audience. Don’t let “Today at Apple” remain a relic of what it once was.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my old course notes and screenshots from those pre-Covid sessions. They’re a reminder of a time when walking into an Apple Store meant more than just buying the latest iPhone—it meant learning how to make something beautiful with it at the intersection of technology and liberal arts.

Note: this post was crafted by me with writing help from Grok by xAI.

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Uncategorized

The Power of the Handwritten Note

In an era dominated by digital communication, the handwritten note stands out as a powerful and increasingly rare form of expression. The simple act of putting pen to paper carries a weight and significance that makes it a potent tool for both personal and professional communication. We can all appreciate their enduring charm and delightfulness.

During my tenure at IBM years ago, one of the most delightful aspects of being a manager was the provision of personal stationery. This wasn’t just any paper; it was a statement of elegance and personal touch. Smaller in size, cream-colored, and boasting a luxurious texture, each sheet bore my name engraved on the letterhead, conspicuously lacking any IBM logo. This stationery was designed for a specific purpose: to maintain the long-held company tradition of writing personal notes to colleagues and associates.

The power of a handwritten note lies in its inherent personal touch. When someone takes the time to write by hand, they invest a part of themselves into the message. The unique curves and strokes of their handwriting, the choice of words, and even the occasional crossed-out phrase all contribute to a sense of authenticity and intimacy that cannot be replicated by typed text. This personal investment communicates to the recipient that they are truly valued and special.

Receiving such a note was always a delight. Many of us kept these notes in special file folders, occasionally taking a few minutes to flip through them, reliving important moments and feeling a renewed sense of appreciation. These tangible and physical mementos have a quality that digital messages simply cannot match.

As the years have passed, the custom of sending personal notes has faded, replaced by the convenience of digital communications. This shift has only served to enhance the impact of handwritten notes. Receiving a handwritten note today feels like discovering a treasure. Such a note stands out precisely because it isn’t instant, digital communication.

The act of writing by hand also benefits the sender. The slower pace of handwriting compared to typing allows for more thoughtful composition. It encourages the writer to choose their words carefully and reflect on their message.

As we’ve been grappling with the impact of AI tools on various aspects of our lives, handwritten notes also serve as a bastion of genuine human expression. The act of writing by hand removes the temptation to rely on AI-generated text for our most personal communications. When we put pen to paper, we directly confront our own thoughts and emotions, as we find our own words to express what we truly feel.

Moreover, handwritten notes also provide a level of privacy and intimacy. Unlike emails or text messages, which can be easily forwarded or shared, a handwritten note is meant for the eyes of the recipient alone. This exclusivity adds to the special and personal nature of the communication.

Whether expressing gratitude, offering condolences, or simply saying “hello”, the act of putting pen to paper creates a moment of pause in our hectic lives for both the sender and and recipient providing a moment to reflect, to connect, and to affect another person’s life in a delightful and meaningful way. Special creations for special people in our lives!