A Life of Hand-Me-Downs

A Life of Hand-Me-Downs – Written 5/12/15

Some would consider being born the youngest a curse, living a life in the shadows of your siblings and always feeling like you must live up to or better their achievements. Some may see it as a blessing, a way to be spoiled without guilt, or a chance to learn or approve upon their mistakes. I saw it as a little of both. My real curse was being born the day after Christmas and having to live with the dreaded combination of both birthday and Christmas gifts all in one pleasant package, which I actually quickly grew to love and appreciate. I also lived life with a series of hand-me-down gifts (or rather, donations), which were typically beat down and outdated, but which also inadvertently helped to shape my life and mold me into who I am today.

My father is a lover of hobbies; he loves to fish, hike, camp, fart, and partake in many other outdoor (or bathroom related) activities, but is mainly an advocate of anything that is hands-on. As a kid, he grew up with his beloved Erector Set, which he later passed down to me when I was very young. Being nearly toothless still, I had no use for it at first, but a few years later, when I could finally add two plus two together, I fell in love. As a former expert builder of Linkin’ Logs, the newly discovered craft came easy for me. I’d spend hours tinkering with the rusty screws and bolts, trying to put together anything halfway recognizable that Pops would be proud of. Always standing back and admiring my work, Dad would come up behind me and tell me what a nice looking toilet that I’d built.

“It’s a ferris wheel,” I’d say.

He’d laugh and laugh and pat me on the back saying, “Of course it is son. Of course it is.” At the time, it didn’t dawn on me that he was relating my piece of art akin to something that we sit a shit on, but I held my dad in high regards. There’s no way he would stoop that low, right?

As years went on and pieces of the set became lost in the vacuum cleaner, I moved on and upgraded to Legos and K’nex. In daycare, I was known as the “K’nex Kid” because I would spend weeks working on big projects that the program manager bought for all of the kids but that no one would ever start. So while other kids were slathering paint to blank pages using various body parts, drawing lines on paper to make unrecognizable shapes that slightly resembled humans (if humans had three heads), cutting out triangles to make odd looking snowflakes, or doing some other sort of silly art project that would end up in the bottom of a box on the top shelf of their parents’ garage, I was actually thinking and creating real art, or so I bragged. Eight foot long roller coasters, four foot high Ferris wheels, skyscrapers—you name it. If she bought it, I would build it, and kids would come “ooh” and “ahh” at my work. Then I’d cry and cry when I was forced to break it down for the next kid, who never really came. Regardless, I felt like I was the man! I was smarter than those silly craft makers and painters. Sure, my sister could sketch and paint a beautiful rose for my grandma that always made her tear up. Sure, my brother could write poems, rap songs, and out-intellectualize anyone in the family. But me? I was the builder; I was the real deal.

Okay, okay, so maybe I didn’t really think all of that; the fact of the matter is, I just loved seeing the end result of something that I set out to do and accomplish on my own, which is what I’m sure all artists enjoy. To create something out of nothing was a pure pleasure, and the gratification increased tenfold when people actually stopped to admire what I had made and could enjoy it with me.

My father also passed me down comic books that he had kept from his younger days, and before they were turned into devalued mulch, I actually read them. All six hundred of them. I’m sure he now regrets giving his would-be money-makers to his young children (both my brother and I), but the value I got from them surpasses (at least for me) their worth before they were ripped, torn, and stomped upon.

 It is in my humble opinion that Disney is set to take over the world with their ownership of Pixar, Star Wars, and now Marvel Studios. But, having grown up on all three (especially with my dad’s Marvel comics), I am a member of the special geekdom clan that just does not give a damn. Having read and reread those comics, waking up at the break of dawn every weekend to catch the latest X-Men and Spiderman cartoons, spending hundreds of dollars on comic cards just so that I could spend nights reading the backs of them, you can say that I am somewhat of a fan. Yes, I try out all of the videogames. Yes, I go to all of the movies and point out errors in the plot to the victim sitting beside me (which used to always be my poor wife), giving her ample opportunity to practice the motion of pinching her eyes closed while simultaneously shaking and rubbing her head. Yes, I dress up as the latest novelty hero and attend the nearest Comic-Con. Yes, last year I went as Black Superman. Okay, okay, I’ve gone too far again, and those last two are lies, but you get the point: once again something passed down to me grew to become a part of me, and something that was considered ruined and depreciated has become much appreciated (except by my wife) all these years later.

There were other hand-me-downs that came from an unlikely source—my sister, who happens to be the oldest of my parent’s three children. The main one was a small keyboard from the 80s, with all of the basic buttons, beats, and sounds of the times. The letters “CDEFGAB” were pasted on eight of the forty-eight plastic keys, starting on the middle C. I didn’t really know what to think of it at first. I really just wanted to throw it in with the rest of the pile that we were creating for a garage sale, but something told me that it could come in handy and might actually be fun to try out.

Keys broke, one of the speakers blew out and went fuzzy, but I continued to pound away meaninglessly as if I were both blind and deaf, not really caring what I produced. Then my grandmother taught me chopsticks, which was easy enough, but eventually that became a bore. My cousin Lindsey then taught me how to play a very simplified version of “Deck the Halls,” but if I didn’t learn something new quickly, my family threatened to throw that keyboard out of the window (seeing how it was still the middle of July). So I went back to my cousin, who taught me “Silent Night” and “Carol of the Bells” (her Christmas book was the only beginner book that she had). At this point, my family was enraged at my song choices, and I was quickly on a deadline to learn more. But the thing was, I loved it, and from that point forward, I never wanted to stop learning.

When I went to my future stepmom’s house for the first time, she played Fur Elise on her piano, which to my ears sounded both enchanting and complex. I was hooked. She began to slowly teach me, but I caught on to it so quickly that we soon ran out of material. I began taking formal lessons, quit those two years later when the strict rules of reading notes from a page became monotonous and boring, took up jazz band in high school so that I could learn how to improv, and the rest is history. My love of music was amplified, and to this day, I soak up what I can, when I can, and love to just sit and play whatever comes to mind.

I guess my point is this: stuff that is handed down may seem like outdated pieces of crap, but can ultimately turn into treasured pieces of crap that could help shape your life and end up filling those voids that appear through time. Gratification is one of the main elements to happiness and pleasure, with satisfaction being the cunning outcome, and, dare I say, the sprinkles on the brownie that you eat, which your friend happens to mention has pot butter in it after the fact (score!). I may have been angry at the time I received said hand-me-downs (“oh woe as me, the deception!”), but ultimately, and pleasantly, I was so, so grateful. 

That moral still sticks with me today and I still try to practice my gratefulness in everyday life. Thanks to Pops, and the lesson he inadvertently instilled in me, I get an increased enjoyable feeling in knowing that the gratification and satisfaction in creation can be contagious, and any pleasure my audience feels from something that I’ve created is a sort of fulfillment in of itself, and that is enough for me. Sometimes it may take a while, because Lord knows I am a perfectionist at heart, but, as my cursed birthday states, I’m a Capricorn. It’s in the stars.