The Typewriter and Me

G'ma used to love to stand in the doorway and listen to me type. She said it was one of the prettiest sounds she ever heard.

I took piano lessons forever, and never really go the hang of it. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, with the lid on it, and that complicated my relationship with music. My fingers were willing, but reading the notes and translating that into a tune was, for the most part, beyond my capabilities.

Typing, though, was something that came easily. I took a class to learn the keyboard one summer, and breezed through it. My fingers flew. I could copy text fluidly. I got an A, although the teacher was never satisfied with my work. I was too fast. I would’t wait for the rest of the class. I was a problem.

I loved it.

We had a black, manual Smith Corona machine at home. The keys took some strength to push, but my hands were up to the task. There was something very satisfying about the sound and the pressure and the results. But, I lusted for an electric machine. They were expensive when they first came out, but by the time I went off to college, my parents could afford to equip me with a light blue Selectric.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

My thoughts flew from my brain to my fingers and onto the page. I typed for everyone, for free and for beers and for party invitations. I edited as I transcribed, making me a valuable commodity at Cornell in the early 1970’s. Typing was a money maker and a friend maker and something that made me smile.

I like pens and paper, probably more than any thing in the world. But the typewriter opened my thoughts to the world. I was faster than a speeding bullet, able to write big words in a single breath.

Look….. in The Burrow…..it’s your mom…. she’s a writer…. she’s a typist.