OK, so now that we've introduced all of Erin's family to each other...
When I was in the 8th grade, my family took a three week vacation to Europe with the
Indianapolis Children's Choir. (I was a founding member of this fine organization, which now includes approximately 2 million kids in a 6 state range. When I was in it, there were 4 choirs. Now they have one choir specifically for kids between the ages of 6 and 6-1/2 who sing through a mechanical voicebox like a robot. It's amazing...)
Anyway, last night after dinner, I suggested that Erin had never seen the pictures from this trip. I inquired as to where the pictures were stored, and my mom informed me that she kept them under the sink in the bathroom. I'm proud that my mom treasures our family history enough to leave it beneath a set of 40 year old pipes.
Dad quickly lept to his feet and returned a short time later with a projector, screen, and a moldy box of slides. Why slides, you ask? Excellent question. I have no clue. The trip was back in the late 80's, and while there weren't digital cameras or the Internet, we also weren't limited to slides. I suppose it's a better option than a box full of
tintypes, but not by much.
I was somewhat shocked that my parents still owned an actual projector and screen. I suppose when you've got the space in your attic for your kid's placentas, you've got room for a projector. (For those who haven't heard the story, my parent's are both science teachers. You can make your own joke about the scarring effects of discovering remnants of your own birth while searching for Christmas lights.)
After setting up the projector, dad whipped out the first canister of slides and threw them into the machine. We saw approximately 2 and a half slides of London before the projector jammed. This made us all laugh, because we all have fond memories of my grandfather desparately trying to show us slides of family vacations while continually fighting a jammed projector. His solution was always to stick something sharp and metal into the still-powered projector in an effort to free the stuck slide. This always made us laugh and wait for the inevitable electrocution.
Without any sense of irony, my dad immediately began searching for something sharp and metal to perform a similar operation. His first attempt at fixing the projector only took a couple of minutes. After a couple more slides from England and Whales, we moved on to France. Apparently the projector didn't dig the French, because it immediately jammed again. After spending a few unsuccessful minutes trying to fix the stuck projector, dad gave the back of the canister of slides a good whack.
This did appear to move the canister, at least part of it. The canister began to bend while still attached to the projector. After a couple more good whacks, the slides sprayed out of the canister and onto the floor, leaving a mangled shell of the canister which previously held them. As dad began cleaning up the slides and preparing to move onto the next batch, I noticed that there was blood on the side of the projector.
Another trait of my grandfather's was that he could injure himself doing virtually anything. He was a doctor and performing minor surgeries on himself didn't apparently bother him, because he routinely had to reattach various appendages to himself after making basic household repairs. With this in mind, it was no surprise that there was blood on dad's projector at this point.
I inquired about the blood, at which point we all noticed that dad had a large slice in the side of his hand where he had fought with the slides and lost. Rather than clean his wound, or even admit its presence, we moved on to Germany and Austria. Two more slides, blammo. At this point, Grant was becoming weary of the whole event, so we had to begin packing. I felt bad leaving my folks with a pile of slides and a busted projector, but I feared that if we stayed, I'd be asked to "hold the flashlight." And that's a whole other post.
And also, for those who are interested,
here's a link to a little news from the homeland. Make sure you read all the way to the end of the story. Thanks to my aunt and uncle for the tip. There's strange things afoot in Southern Indiana.
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