All the Places We Went

There are no photos of the time machine.

There couldn't be. In our childhoods, only adults wielded cameras, and there were no adults involved in the crafting of the time machine.

There couldn't be.

For one, adults would've objected to the premise. They would've noticed the borrowed fencing swords, tucked at the ready in the corner of the basement, and started yelling about eyes getting poked out.

(But honestly, how else are you supposed to know you've landed in medieval times unless there's an active swordfight happening the moment you exit the cockpit?)

I don't remember how the time machine emerged, or whose idea it was, but the execution belongs to the four of us: Faithful, Fiddlesticks, Trouble and Horatio. We chose the names, as we chose most things we liked, from books. (Eventually, when we got tired of time travelling to the same two eras for which we had props - the aforementioned medieval times and the occasional jaunt to the Jurassic era - we switched to traveling into scenes from our favorite books.)

The time machine's body was, of course, a cardboard box, that holy grail of childhood canvases. It was big enough for one of us to sit in and manage the controls painted on the box's front flap. The side flaps were carefully designed wings, but the piece de resistance was the "engine." A sparkly blue cheerleader's pom-pom was mounted on the box's rear, and made a delightful rustling noise when the box was rocked from side to side. It looked like blue fire shooting out the back of the time machine. What could be cooler?

We took turns piloting the machine, but whoever wasn't in the box had a job to do, too - we had a spot for Mission Control, who sat at another elaborately painted box, tapping their fingers over flat squares and rectangles designed to look like something off a later Star Trek series.

There was an elaborate script between the time machine pilot and Mission Control, though we didn't have any communication devices, preferring instead to shout across the eighteen inches between the cockpit and Mission Control console. There was a countdown sequence, and a BLAST OFF! marked by flickering lights and the pom-pom engine vigorously shaking.

Once the hubbub settled, the pilot would then steer the time machine as long as she pleased, or until the lights person and the engine-shaking person were able to get to their new positions as medieval knights, dinosaurs, or, I remember at least once, commanders of the USS Enterprise. From there, they'd enact a scene for the time machine pilot, who could choose to watch the drama unfold, or intervene with a swagger and a quip.

The glee was palpable in those moments. It wasn't that we truly believed we were going anywhere; we were all too old for that. Instead, the joy came from the shared purpose, the fact that we were old enough to work together to make the thing come alive. There were no adults to ensure that we each got a turn in each role, no one to make us rinse the paint brushes, and no one to mediate squabbles, so we rose to the occasion and ruled ourselves with an unparalleled dedication to the mission.

In fact, our hours with the time machine proved a dry run for later projects, including the time we mounted a neighborhood production of a single Star Trek episode with a full-size cast of kids, costumes, props (we stole the Mission Control console and installed it on the bridge) sound effects and music. There are no photos of that, either. We assembled our parents in the living room-turned-theater and tried not to grin as they marveled at our coordination, too stunned to reach for the camera.

The time machine eventually outlived its useful life and was consigned to the scrap heap, but it lives forever as one of the first times I remember being a part of something bigger than we who built it. Greater than the sum of cardboard, paint, and pom-poms.