WHEN I WAS

Admission: I save things. I hoard. Everything that “could” be thrown away, I picture having another purpose, that there still might be some life left hidden within that seemingly useless object.

This 1950s typewriter belonged to my mom. It’s green plastic cover has a large slit. I won’t throw that away either.

I remember my mother typing on this monster, but what she typed remains a mystery. Addresses on letters, perhaps. My older sister used it for school work.

I, too, typed on this (30 pound?) machine – a bit of poetry, a collaborative “screenplay” entitled It Comes From the Heart when I was around fourteen. (It’s awful, but I still have that, too). Each finger-plunk was a major workout and heaven forbid if I ran out of white-out liquid.

Now I have a real, live, computer with easy keyboard action. I don’t need that old typewriter anymore. Am I getting rid of it? Hell, no.

(Besides, it’s too heavy to carry downstairs and out the door.)

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