Perforation Problems

Somewhere in my house, maybe in a box in the attic, is a tape recorder with an hour of my great grandma's voice. A few years before she died, I decided in the middle of one of my obsession-with-genealogy phases that I wanted to make a record of what she knew about our Irish ancestors, one of whom had stowed away on a ship during the potato famine to make his way to America. I remember putting the recording aside and thinking, "This is important – I'll want to keep this." Having a record of Grandma T's voice seemed precious even while she was still there. And yet somehow I've let it get stowed away in a box in the attic. It's depressing to think of how many stories get lost, either diluted by time and memory, forgotten, or made inaccessible once we're gone, locked in the shadows of our brains without any way out. My grandpa tells me stories all the time – he's an amazing storyteller, with the knack of making you see what he saw and hear the voices...

I've been a part-time city dweller for about 5 months now, and I gotta say, except for the driving back and forth, it's pretty much the best of both worlds. When I'm in Cincinnati I spend my days working in coffee shops, meeting my friend on the corner to walk to the gym, taking Clyde to the dog park, playing trivia at our regular weekly spot. It's easier to be social in Cincinnati, especially for our normally not-so-social selves. We have a group of friends there with whom there's no pressure to be polite or pleasant if you don't feel like it. Hanging out or getting dinner isn't a big deal because you can just walk a couple blocks from your apartment or stop by somewhere after work – it doesn't mean taking up your whole evening. And the city throws interesting things my way almost every time I step out on the streets – two little girls on Orchard Street screaming an unharmonious version of the "Doe, a deer" song from The Sound of Music, a home...