Meanwhile, the basic profile remains the same. "Nerd" is an inherited condition. My husband was always neat, even, his mother told me, as a child, a born organizer. The system might not always be apparent, but he will explain it to you, and he will back his preferences with an annoyingly inescapable logic. He built and flew model airplanes through adolescence. In neatly labeled boxes in the basement, beside his mourned, obsolete darkroom, are their engines, packed carefully in oil.
After we married, he worked in the budding IT world. At home, he spent a decade obsessing over Ansel Adams’ Zone System. He could bring a loud party with the latest Stones album to a stand-still if given an opening, those omnipresent gray scale test sheets in hand. His photography, as he practiced in darkroom and after kitchen table grokkings of his work, was inspired. As a result, we’ve got rafts of wonderful pictures of our boys.
So, when the oldest granddaughter puts on her “Talk Nerdy to Me” tee and heads out to binge on X-Files, or to play War Craft with her friends, I feel a distinctly warm glow. When the other girl, now a HS Junior who plays in the marching band, becomes a Word Pad Star with her funny Rick Riordan fan-tic, I cheer out loud!
Both girls are bona fide members of The Creative Clan.