45th Anniversary of the Internet

Today is the 45th anniversary of the beginning the Internet. It's a little less than 4 hours from the time on October 29, 1969 that my husband successfully accessed a computer at Stanford Research Institute from a computer at UCLA.

The first time that I recall an acknowledgment of this day in 1969 was in 1999. I began to receive calls at my office looking for my husband because it would be the 30th anniversary of the day on which he was able to connect his computer to another computer in Menlo Park, California.

I had just graduated in September 1969 from UCLA and my husband-to-be was a graduate student at UCLA. I joined the UCLA Alumni Association as a life member within a year of my graduation. My husband who earned three degrees from UCLA never did. It was my membership of the UCLA Alumni Association the precipitated these calls.

Through the influence of my father, I often found myself as the only female in a male dominated area of study, job, etc. I was the only female in my high school physics class. I was a mathematics major at UC Berkeley where I learned ALGOL and FORTRAN 2.

At UCLA, I joined the Computer Club in which I was one of two or three females during the time in which I was a member. It was at Computer Club that I met Charley. We had dated off and on for almost 3 years. In September 1969, we were at a wedding of an engineering student friend when we decided to become engaged to marry.

By 1969, it was clear to me that I was probably going to marry this guy. I was cooking dinner for him four week nights a week. I was including his laundry with mine when I did mine. I was a bit miffed when his clothes were soiled by crawling in the space below the raised floor in that computer room of October 29, 1969.

Ira Flatow asked Charley last Friday if he had any idea of what that night meant in 2014. He said that he had no clue. Charley's response it right on. The only thing that I remember of that time was wondering why the ARPA contract couldn't afford to buy Charley coveralls so he didn't harm his clothing while crawling under the floor.

Life at Berkeley Forty Years Ago

Periodically, I am made aware that I am a part of history. Such was the case recently while I was on my vacation. Although I still am getting over the fact that the period in which I was in college is now taught as history at high schools and colleges, I am glad that I can tell my story through my blog.

I was spending time in the arts and crafts building at Bruin Woods when one of the arts and crafts counselors asked if I minded if she sat near me as she was interested in what I was making. It was a delight to talk with her. She would be starting her sophomore year at UCLA in the fall.

We talked about college life. I happened to mention that my mother-in-law had contemplated enrolling at UCLA and moving into the dorms because she would be close to the medical center, have meals provided, and be able to attended concerts and visit museums. The fact that only freshmen and sophomores are offered dorm rooms was not on my mother-in-law's radar. She has a master's degree already. Kelsey thought that having a 91-year-old living in the dorms might be fun.

Albeit, I thought about the time I was in college and how dorm rooms were available throughout all four years of ones time at Berkeley. When I tried to secure a dorm room, everything was taken so I ended up in a female living group that was approved by the University. Two years later, no one wanted to be in a dorm.

So much has changed since I was in college. The age of majority was 21 and, as a female, my parents had control of my life for the first 3 years of college. When I enrolled at Berkeley, my parents were asked to sign a document in which they gave or denied me permission to date or be out at night and establish a curfew on weekdays and weekends.

I was a freshman when I went out on a double-date with one of the women in my house. We did not get home until after midnight. I had to appear before the Judicial Committe on campus to explain myself. I was not penalized because the committee felt that I had been unduly influenced by my housemate who was a senior.

I had begun my freshman year after the Free Speech Movement began at Berkeley. Several of my classes focused on civil disobedience. I remember that I had to study about civil disobedience in the past. The year that I was at Berkeley was a relatively quiet year but my mother was still unnerved about my being there.

My mother wanted me to transfer to UC Irvine. If I did that, she would expect me to live at home. My father interceded and convinced my mother that I could come home on weekends if I was at UCLA. I transferred to UCLA but not because I wanted to transfer. I learned that I could graduate from UCLA under the Berkeley Catalog so I selected my classes based on the 1965 catalog with the intention of transferring back to Berkeley when I turned 21.

In preparation for my transfer, I learned about an emancipated minor. I had myself declared an emancipated minor about the time I met my husband to be. So it seems that the best laid plans were derailed by love.

On Becoming a Part of History

The furthest thing from my mind was the possibility that any part of my family could be a part of history in my lifetime. Someone who is a head of state is a part of history. But we are just ordinary people.

I suppose I should have considered this possibility almost twenty years ago when my daughter asked me to help find an artifact of the 20th Century to bring to school.

It was the 1990s and I had some old stuff I had purchased from antique stores that I was sure would qualify. However, not much of it was small enough to fit in her backpack or for her to easily carry. I did have a cast iron, hand-cranked coffee grinder that was manufactured about 1910.

I used it a few times when I first acquired it, but the electric coffee grinder was faster and easier to use. To me it fit the bill. It was quite lovely, painted black with gold leafing, but very heavy. My daughter refused to take it to school. So back to the drawing board,

I started going through some boxes looking for something that she could manage. Then I spied a slide rule that I had from college. I hadn't used it in so many years that it wouldn't move.

How could something I used in high school and college be an artifact? Completely unfathomable after all I am not that old! My daughter had not even heard of a slide rule. She'd never seen one. Since it was lightweight and something she could put in her backpack, she decided to take it. My husband, with a little WD-40, got the slide rule working and showed her how to use it.

Neither of us could believed that we had become old enough that something we regularly used not all that long ago was an artifact. As shocking as that notion was to us, neither of us conceived of a day in which one of us might be included in a history book.

But now it's nearly twenty years past.

Last fall, my husband was interviewed by the Computer History Museum in Mountain View, California. His interview is part of an oral history exhibit that the museum is creating. Forty years ago, he was a graduate student working on an interesting project. The students were having fun and no one thought what they were doing would make history.

Fifteen years ago interest in the beginnings of the Internet was just emerging. In 1996, Katie Hafner published her book, "Where Wizards Stay Up Late: The Origins of the Internet." She interviewed him and there is a brief mention of him in the book.

Ten years ago, interest in the evolution of the Internet, again emerged. Dr. Leonard Kleinrock, at UCLA, waged a successful PR campaign to identify the beginning of the Internet as October 29, 1969. As a result, my husband was interviewed by San Francisco Bay Area newspapers and radio stations concerning his involvement on that date.

The fall of 2009 was a different story. Maybe it was shocking to people to learn that the Internet was germinated over forty years ago. It is so 21st Century! How can it be a product of the mid 20th century?

More people seemed to be interested in how the Internet came to be. In October, my husband became a mini-celebrity. He was incredibly flattered when someone asked for his autograph. He was on Cloud-nine after an Office Depot employee recognized him and asked to have his picture taken with my husband.

Several months have passed and he is just a regular guy again. No more requests for photos or autographs. But I am still shocked that my husband's voice, image and story is preserved in a museum.

Words of Wisdom from My Dad

My father was a second generation American while my mother's family had been in North America in the 1600s. His paternal grandparents were born in Denmark and his maternal grandfather was born in Norway and his maternal grandmother was born in Sweden. His parents must have instilled in him that he was an American. I remember as a child several interactions with the other kids in my Minnesota neighborhood in which we boldly proclaimed that we were Swedes, Danes, Germans, etc. At some point, my dad felt the need to tell me that I was not a Swede, Dane or Norwegian, but I was an American. What he said back then didn't really have an impact on me as several years later when I was a student at UCLA, Alex Haley's book, "Roots" was introduced, I was consumed with being identified as Sandinavian. I enrolled in Medieval Scandivanian Languages and Literature courses. Although I really enjoyed these classes, I realized that I did not feel a really strong connection. But I was intrigued by the stories and literature had an indirect relationship to me. I had no idea that a branch of my mother's family was in North America in the 1600s. Because my dad's family and my mom's family were Lutheran, I assumed that my mother's ancestors were German and Scandinavian. So it was easy for me to declare that I was Scandivanian. Several years later, I embarked on a quest to research my family history. I learned that my mother's maternal grandmother was Norwegian but her father's father was of Dutch, Scot, German, and English descent. Then I learned that my mother's great grandfather was born in Canada and his great grandfather was born in New York. With so many of my ancestors coming from many of the countries in northern Europe, how can I claim one identity. My dad was right. I am an American. However, I am an American who has an intense curiousity about my ancestors, where they lived and what life was like for them.