There’s something about the clunky, slow, and utterly fascinating world of early technology that draws me in. It wasn’t sleek, polished, or user-friendly—but it was raw. It was a time when every interaction with a computer was a small triumph, and every mistake felt like a minor catastrophe.
My first taste of real computing came in 7th grade when I worked with an Altair 8800. Now, this wasn’t a laptop or desktop like you’d find today. This was a behemoth, a relic that required a certain kind of patience—or, more accurately, a lot of frustration. Imagine, if you will, a bank of switches on the front panel, each one flipped to on or off positions. These switches were the only way to write words—yes, words—using binary code. You’d flip the switches, adding a word to the register, then repeat the process to form the next word. And it wasn’t just a handful of words. This was painstaking work. A single line of text would take what felt like hours to input.
That Altair 8800 wasn’t alone for long, though. My science teacher, seeing the potential of this ancient machine, added a Commodore PET to his makeshift computer lab in the school’s science and math building. Suddenly, the landscape of learning was expanding, and with it, the possibility that these machines might actually help us make something—maybe even make life easier. Little did we know, it was just the beginning of something much, much bigger.
Fast forward a bit, and I’m working in sales for a stereo and home electronics store in college. And guess what? It wasn’t just about speakers and amplifiers. One day, a representative from one of the first cell phone makers came to give us a demo. Now, this wasn’t your sleek, slim phone with a touchscreen and access to the world at your fingertips. Oh no, this was a beast of a device—a handset connected to a car battery and a whip antenna the size of a small tree. The phone was heavy, the call quality was borderline comical, and the service was limited to a handful of areas around Los Angeles.
But the rep was confident. He told us that, one day, phones would be small enough to carry in your pocket, and people would ditch their landlines for these mobile devices. We all laughed it off. The technology seemed ridiculous, impractical even. Of course, he was right, and I can’t help but wonder if he bought stock in the company back then.
But the most incredible story of technology in its infancy came from a colleague of mine, a guy who had spent his career repairing mainframes. One of his earliest jobs involved a disastrous Christmas Day call to a data center. Some junior tech had disconnected and moved a DASD (Direct Access Storage Device) without properly powering it down. Critical data was lost, and the company’s leadership gathered around the data center to watch the repair team attempt to recover it.
The seasoned technician my colleague was paired with had one legendary move to make in moments like these. He opened up the failed DASD, pulled out the heavy disk spindle, and gave it a gentle blow across the plates. A fine reddish-brown dust swirled up into the air. The senior tech paused, watching as someone inevitably asked, "What was that?"
With a dramatic flourish, he replied, “That was your data.”
The spinning disk heads had ground into the iron oxide coating, turning precious data into powder. It was a loss, but it was also a lesson in how fragile early technology was—how every failure felt like a huge disaster, yet was often overcome through sheer ingenuity and creativity.
My own journey with technology wasn’t much less quirky. My first personal computer was an Apple II. I spent hours tinkering with it, learning its ins and outs. Then, I decided I was going to build a modem for it. Inspired by a plan I found in Byte magazine, I walked over to Radio Shack, purchased the parts, and spent days carefully assembling it. It wasn’t smooth sailing, but there was something so satisfying about creating something from scratch with nothing more than a few instructions and a handful of components.
Looking back at these early days of computing, I can’t help but smile at the simplicity of it all. Technology has come so far since then—faster, more reliable, and incredibly powerful. But there’s something about those old-school systems, those days of tinkering and trial and error, that reminds me of the raw beauty of tech. It wasn’t always easy, but every breakthrough felt earned, every problem solved a small victory.
So next time you find yourself frustrated with your latest tech fail or marveling at the smoothness of your newest device, remember the Altair 8800, that clunky cell phone, and those dusty DASD units. Technology has come a long way, but it was built on a foundation of passion, failure, and persistence. And that’s something we can all relate to, no matter how advanced our devices get.