Nostalgia

The humming maze behind chain link was the neighborhood’s voltage-changing, fault-isolating traffic interchange.

The giant tank over the neighborhood stored water, pressure, and a surprisingly elegant answer to morning showers.

When the lights died, one beige corded phone kept working because its power came from somewhere else.

Blockbuster on a Friday night, four-player N64, dial-up, Windows 95 and 98, the Autoplex, and the year nothing broke, in 3½ minutes of pixel art.

The least glamorous lawn ornament in town helped turn cable television wiring into the broadband network.

Before the sound card loaded, one tiny speaker communicated entirely through judgmental beeps.

I used to carry Windows, drivers, and half a repair shop in a giant CD binder. Now I talk to my phone and the computers do the walking.

Your computer called another computer that might allow exactly one visitor at a time.

You typed a full polite question into the internet and received twelve unrelated fan pages.

The website had no comments section, so strangers wrote in a public digital wedding book.