knob

Flashes from childhood refract in the ordinary often, you notice?

Like, here's a doorknob in our home that I've used daily for years without thinking, but this morning it reminded me of my dad; he used to collect them, glass ones particularly. I'm thinking of a couple that linger on a shelf in his shop, and of a box of them somewhere, too.

Who decided to change them out, and why?

And what makes Restoration Hardware feel justified about charging what they do for brand-spanking new replicas? What makes that irksome to me?

Remember how doors loomed gigantically above when we were small? How handles used to be out of reach? How even the dog could figure them out, but not your toddler fingers? How, at just the right time of day, when the door is opened just so, sun struck it perfectly, prismatically?

Am I making this up? Didn't we have these on Stoe Street in Oakland, circa 1975?

Bounce now to the door handles at the Vegetarian Living Community where I lived during grad school, and The Wylder, my home during senior year. Memories flood: Sneaking Burger King Whopper Juniors with Cheese past vegan co-op-ers into the VLC and complaints about my cat's footsteps from my downstairs neighbor at The W. Cat's footsteps!!!

Then questions about glass doorknobs - like when did they fall from favor, and why? Who created them, originally, anyway?

There's something Lion, Witch, Wardrobe about them, something lacy and dusty and formal and cool. Something molded and sturdy, but artful and grand simultaneously.

I get to use this little instrument of time travel and wonder everyday. Huh.