Underwood
Composite, IR typewriter keys, island on lake, old script letter
The sun is rising through a light haze probably from the Canadian forest fires. Hummingbirds are swooping about and the fountain is making that wonderful falling water sound. (Which also makes me want to pee.) I should start my morning walk but maybe today, just today, I’ll sit and watch and think a bit.
A week ago I was walking in an antique “mall” and saw an old typewriter in one of the dealer stalls. I stopped to look, and like a puppy, a typewriter called out for me to take it home. After some discussion with the owner regarding today’s outrageous prices, inflation, old broken stuff, etc., the dealer and I agreed that the typewriter would only be safe going home with me.
I am now the proud owner of a mostly functional 1927 Underwood 4 Bank Portable Typewriter. I rolled a piece of paper into this wonderful little machine, happily banged on the keys and saw the typeface magically appear on the paper. I won’t actually use the thing as a typewriter but rather as an icon of what I’ve really wanted to do all my life…write. And perhaps as a memorial to that goal since I don’t seem to have the drive to make the writing consistently happen. But I digress.
The Underwood came with a ribbon, a sad thing, well used and looking tired from all of its beatings. I thought of the previous owners and all the ideas they might have typed on the machine, the intellect, the love, the hate, life’s happenings that the ribbon captured and transferred to paper and then someone else’s mind. I don’t believe thoughts like this are relevant in today’s younger generation…the thought of an inter-generational connection through touching…I am pretty sure that concept is no longer in vogue. My generation may have been the start of that disconnect.
“Back in the day” people passed their treasures to the next generation. Sterling silver and “fine” china were probably at the top of the list. Heirloom furniture, jewelry, knick knacks, too were worthy. But life changes and the values of generations don’t always match. I distinctly remember my grandparents getting ready for holiday dinners. I was the one who polished the silver that had been in the fabric-lined drawer for 11 months…since the last time I polished it. When I was quite young I was always admonished to “take care” when handling the dishes because it was fine “china.” Those are fond memories of the tradition carried on by my parents who inherited the silver and the china. When my parents passed my sister and I split up the things. And things evolved.
For a few years my family used the silverware and the china at Thanksgiving and Christmas, the same as my parents, the same as my grandparents, the same as their parents. But then, well, things changed and the traditions we were building didn’t need “things” to succeed. And so the china stayed in the cabinet with the silver until we moved.
When we moved it was time to downsize. Kids not interested in china or silver. Time to sell the heirlooms. Not so fast. The pandemic was still ongoing. And the “market” for silver and china had fizzled, years before the pandemic. The value of the silver was in the melted ounce, not in the wonder of its making. And most of the stuff I had was silver plate with no value. Gone. Except for one little bit of stuff.
My grandfather was a printer by trade, a woodworker by avocation. He loved the smell of freshly lathed wood and turned simple boards into objects of functional beauty. When I was three years old he made me a wooden desk with a matching wooden bench and wooden toolbox. It was “child sized,” painted fire engine red with decals of bears on the desktop. I’m told I used it for years. When I was older, it was stored in my closet. When I joined the Air Force it moved with me to Texas, Utah, and Virginia with periods of storage. In Virginia it moved with us from Arlington to Alexandria to Springfield to Richmond. It’s rich with memories of my grandfather…not so much in the desk itself, I don’t remember those early years, but I do remember being with my grandfather in his shop where he taught me to use the lathe and the other power tools that scared the hell out of my mom.
Our seven month old granddaughter is now the owner of the red desk. Of course, she won’t have memories or direct stories of my grandfather to give her clues about his love of woodwork or his skills with a linotype. But she might imagine his hands crafting the wood, painting it red, and putting the stencils on, with love for his grandson. The mystery of the heirloom is the imagination it inspires.
And that’s the way I am with this typewriter.
The Underwood