I went on an adventure that took me all around the city of Greensboro. It consequently introduced me to office suppliers in the city who have been in the business since before I was born. The goal of this excursion: find a replacement ribbon for my grandmother's 1956 Adler-Royal typewriter, which I recently inherited. This machine is a gorgeous piece of history. It speaks of a time when things moved a little slower: I have to be careful, precise, deliberate as I push the keys I require one at a time. But the enchantment that the piece holds for me goes quite beyond its historical significance. It is a precious memory: the wild waking of the creative in my child self cheered on by my Grammie.
My grandmother encouraged my writing. She was eager for me to pull out her typewriter and set it on the desk nestled before a window that overlooked her still, green back yard. She would check on me every once in a while to see stacks of paper--littered by stately letters side by side with black blotted mistakes--growing like a miniature Tower of Babel on the floor. Even when she wasn't at my shoulder, I could feel her approving gaze urging me on.
It didn't really matter what I wrote--I think we shared this realization. I don't remember her asking to read the finished work. I'm not even sure where those discarded bits of language went. It was more about the act of creating than it was the end result.The weight and resistance of the keys, their ancient ivory color, the punch of letter meeting paper as each finger flew up to add its beat to the rhythm of the writing song--indulging my fascination of these things could have been the entire goal.
Today, I tap out a disconnected string of words, just to hear the familiar beat once more after more than 10 years. The machine is a willing partner in the inspired process: ready to be admired, it stands at attention like a seasoned soldier, eager to say something new in its old voice. Somehow it has evolved even while sitting dormant for so long--now I hear in its aged tapping the voice of my grandmother. It endures, this lovely, antiquated thing. And all the more loved because it is not for its necessity that it is cherished.
My grandmother encouraged my writing. She was eager for me to pull out her typewriter and set it on the desk nestled before a window that overlooked her still, green back yard. She would check on me every once in a while to see stacks of paper--littered by stately letters side by side with black blotted mistakes--growing like a miniature Tower of Babel on the floor. Even when she wasn't at my shoulder, I could feel her approving gaze urging me on. 
It didn't really matter what I wrote--I think we shared this realization. I don't remember her asking to read the finished work. I'm not even sure where those discarded bits of language went. It was more about the act of creating than it was the end result.The weight and resistance of the keys, their ancient ivory color, the punch of letter meeting paper as each finger flew up to add its beat to the rhythm of the writing song--indulging my fascination of these things could have been the entire goal. 
Today, I tap out a disconnected string of words, just to hear the familiar beat once more after more than 10 years. The machine is a willing partner in the inspired process: ready to be admired, it stands at attention like a seasoned soldier, eager to say something new in its old voice. Somehow it has evolved even while sitting dormant for so long--now I hear in its aged tapping the voice of my grandmother. It endures, this lovely, antiquated thing. And all the more loved because it is not for its necessity that it is cherished.
