Analog — and my Grandfather
I like analog.
It’s not fast. It’s not flashy. In our modern age, I can’t even pretend that it’s practical. But there’s something about the old fashioned way of doing things—from clocks with hands to cars with clutch pedals to news stories printed in an actual newspaper—that greatly appeals to me. It ignites my creativity, subdues the noise in my mind, and sparks a joy deeper than any complicated new technology ever can.
Perhaps I’m backwards, even a curmudgeon. Some of my friends might say so. I just wonder how much this brave new world of faster, brighter, bigger is really doing for us. Sometimes I like to slow down—way down—and experiment with simpler methods to see what ideas result.
One example is with pencils. A couple of years ago I discovered Blackwing, a company defined by their dedication to manufacturing high-quality pencils in a world where paper feels like a fading utility. And yet there’s something about a fresh box of carefully-crafted, thoughtfully-designed writing instruments that assuages that analog hunger in me the way no fancy new keyboard ever could.
Recently, I decided to subscribe to Blackwing’s “Volumes” program, which involves the automatic shipment of a limited edition pencil design four times a year. To kick things off, they sent me their brand new Vol. 21 kit, a square-bodied pencil inspired by the art and craft of fine woodworking.
I like the design—it got me thinking that it might be a fun challenge to hand-write a short story inspired by the pencil, maybe a sawdust mystery with murder in a wood shop. I’m not sure yet.
It also got me thinking about my late grandfather, Charles, who passed away earlier this year. This year he would have turned 85, and while Papa was many amazing and wonderful things, one of the things he was best known for was his appreciation for and mastery of analog craft. Specifically, woodworking.
Slow and methodical in his approach (I admit that his patience and attention to detail far exceeded my own), the items Papa crafted would be disrespected to simply be called beautiful. They were art, so perfectly designed and assembled that their rivals could only be found in premium furniture stores in big cities where price tags always include a comma.
Yes, that was Papa. A true artisan, calm and stable and an absolute rock in every sense of the word. I think he would have liked these pencils—I would have liked to have brought him a box. I don’t know what hobbies look like in Heaven, but if there’s use for a carpenter, Papa will be one of the best.
I found an old picture of us taken not long after Annie and I got married. You can see that I towered over him—but he was the giant.
Miss you, Papa. And I won’t forget what you taught me.
