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.)
Ripe, the words,
in skies and seas
in sunset’s linger
in summer’s breeze.
Plump, the words,
in rain-filled clouds
or mist-less air
the view surrounds.
the thoughts arouse.
Spiced, the words,
in rushing streams
in forests deep
with endless dreams.
Find them, hold them, smell them, taste!
Interweave what nature’s graced.
(The handwriting in the above photoshopped image belongs to John Steinbeck, author)
What was it like in the 20s one-hundred years ago?
Was life more simple then
when it was finally acceptable to apply makeup in public,
to strap a flask of moonshine beneath your dress
and take a sip before voting for the first time?
Did you leave your kitchen (and your new electric icebox) behind,
climb into your new Model T
and rumble off to work outside your home for the first time?
Tell me. How was that new-found freedom?
Did it Roar with jazzy attitude
as you shimmied and twirled
and Charleston-ed your feet toward new opportunities?
I hope so.
You paved the way for me.
Letting our novel’s characters row the boat forward.