First Sunday

That first Sunday had faded from her memory just as its recording had slowly sunk into the memory banks of her somewhat dilapidated desktop. However, she had already reconstructed much of what had come before. She had only recently realized that the motivation for that first Sunday had been brewing for years. It had started as a nagging restless feeling, occasionally mutating into irritation, even outbursts of frustration, sometimes climaxing in feelings of disgust and, eventually, anger.

Call it techno-rage.

She remembered the weight of an undefined and not-yet formulated fear. With the benefit of 20-20 hindsight she could recall early laments and discussions, leading towards speculation, theory and possible explanation. Before that Sunday however, that had all been but an itch unscratched. An itch that ebbed and waned, almost forgotten but then prone to flame up again like an angry chronic rash. She now recognized the cumulative effect these experiences possessed, which made the itch ever less endurable.

And so it had been for years before that first Sunday when she had finally scratched - by chiseling thoughts, fears and memories into energy; current now trapped in electronic circuitry. Electronic currents once, in our innocence, thought permanent, but soon found to be degrading in the fourth dimension. In reality, the electronically recorded memories often lasted less long than the traditionally laid down organic kind. As a student of philosophy she knew memories required periodic maintenance, discourse, discussion and analysis, to stay alive, to be important, and to remain relevant. Who would have thought that electronic memories required the same treatment as the organic kind? Her memory of action taken on that first Sunday may have been fleeting, but these electronic recordings were now proof of those first naïve efforts made.

Heather had only recently recovered this first recording of the collection. Likely its time stamp had been part of the first degradation and the data had slowly slipped into the bowels of the strained and abused memory banks of her only recently revived PC. Much of the data was corrupted, but just enough bits and bytes had held on to their integrity to thrill her into moving this document to the top of her priority list. By conjecture, she had easily determined its rightful place at the beginning of her recorded musings; the opening chapter to her collection.

Only 29% of the file had survived in its original configuration, but this ‘clean’ data fortuitously provided her with a fairly narrow time window. The file was so obviously inspired by the first (and last, come to think of it) full-blown real-life application of the ‘Star Wars’ Strategic Defense Initiative. So it had to be the first or second Sunday after that fateful day, October 19, 2027. Its questioning, its lament, its erroneous speculation, clearly positioned it before November 11 of that same year; the day that the entire human race became aware of the real significance of October 19. It would stand as the new Date Zero, as the latest crucial date to mark our destiny.

Heather smiled as the thought formed in her mind that October 19, 2027 may have been destined ever since Neolithic man picked up the jawbone of an ass, as depicted in that Sunday school classic, 2001: A Space Odyssey. The date we became aware of the birth of our brave new world. Or would that be the death of our brave new world? As always, only time would tell.

A snap, the grating rattle of a broken bicycle chain spinning off its gears and the consequent string of obscenities broke, and then re-focused Heather’s concentration. Their home generator would last less than an hour without Jerry’s leg power. If he couldn’t fix it today it would be juice, they would need to ration between a hot supper meal, evening reading and heat for the nursery.

“Don’t worry Hon – time to close her down anyway! Be with ya in a sec.”

Heather’s fingers flew over the keyboard to quickly close the document, the program and shutdown the computer. For safety’s sake she unhooked the computer from the generator and draped the canvas hood over her console, with a vague memory of her grandmother snapping a red checkered tablecloth over the dining room table.

Jerry was on his knees beside the bike with his fingers in the gear mechanism when she plopped down on the sofa and flashed a sympathetic smile at her husband, father to her children, best friend, lover and chief energy procurer, all rolled into one.

He smiled at her apologetically. “Sorry Babe – I checked it out yesterday and knew it would need some grease soon – been dipping into our supplies building the new windmill and we’re running a little low - thought I could squeeze out a bit more time but I was obviously wrong.”

She returned his smile. “That’s okay Hon – how’s it look?”

“Not that bad”, but a frown contradicted his statement. “Tom has lots of links and still owes me supplies from putting in his waterwheel last month - I should be able to fix it tomorrow afternoon if I can get to his place in the morning.”

Heather leaned back into the sofa. “Well – I’ve got lots of other things I can do around the house anyway.... I guess we won’t have this problem anymore once you get the windmill done – but we should still have the bike for emergency back-up?”

“Yup”.

He made an exaggerated dive on to the sofa, squinted his best imitation of an evil eye at her and made a greasy handprint on the front of her ragged old white t.