Not My Type

Some things just defy explanation. 

Like why, at fifty-two, I'm staring straight into the headlights of a double wide as my next home.  Or why more people don't rise up and demand the permanent removal of Valentine's Day from the calendar. Or how everyday objects from my youth have, somehow, become antiques.

Recently, I came up with the idea to buy my son the writer a vintage typewriter as a college graduation gift. By vintage, incidentally, I mean circa my childhood, an era that is ancient history to my kids but as vivid in my own imagination as if it happened only yesterday. Though I was willing to dig deep into my trailer fund for some old machine I had located on line, a friend insisted that he could find a much cheaper one for me in his travels. A man of his word, he delivered.

Excited to let my son know that his graduation more than two months ago has not been forgotten, I called to tell him his mystery gift had finally arrived. All he knew about it was that he would think it was cool. I refused to tell him what it was, but added some hints: it's old, and I need to get it cleaned and repaired before I give it to him. Something old, that he would find cool, that needs repairs. It didn't take him long at all to guess what it was. He was thrilled.

I immediately snapped a picture of the typewriter and fired it off to him in a text. Try doing that with an old princess telephone! Then, I called him back so he could hear it. The sound of the paper being rolled into the carriage, the sound of the bar being flipped down to hold the paper in place. The sound of the metal spokes striking the carriage, and the sound of the little bell reminding you the margin was about to disappear and it was time to hit the big lever on the left if you didn't want to get stuck in the middle of a word. If only there was some way to digitally transmit odors (smell phones?) I could have given him a whiff of what life was like, back in the day. There are no words to describe the distinct aroma of a heavy metal machine that has no on/off switch, a device with moving parts that you can actually see.

I told him I'd have to get some ribbon for it. He told me I didn't have to bother wrapping it! I smiled. How do you explain to someone who prides himself on his no frills, "old fashioned" cell phone what typewriter ribbon is? One of the more savvy antique collectors of his generation, he knows that record albums aren't just giant CD's, and even appreciates the rich, deep sounds you can only get from spinning one of those oversized disks on a turntable. But punching letter shaped metal tips through flimsy ribbon to make a word appear -- that'll take some getting used to.  

My fingers hurt just thinking about trying to tap out several pages on an old manual typewriter. But my son cannot wait to give it a shot. Wait until he finds out there's no spell check.